


Roommates are Terrible Things

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Dave Strider, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blind Dave Strider, F/F, Illustrations, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 61,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Karkat Vantas, a bright-eyed freshman at Skaia University, has some big, big dreams. He's here to do nothing short of kicking ass, becoming the valedictorian, and going on to obtain a law degree. He's always dreamed of being a prosecutor, and he dabbles in the art of writing tales of romance. For him, there's nothing more exciting than the possibilities of the coming year, and he's determined to let nothing get in his way.All of this would be a whole lot easier without his roommate, an apathetic asshole with enough of an ego to sink an Edwardian luxury liner. If Dave Strider's attitude and apparent lack of academic interest weren't enough, there's something even stranger about him...





	1. Crocodile Rock [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapters with titles with a bracketed exclamation point contain images! [!]**

**Your name is Karkat Vantas.** You were born approximately eighteen years ago, on June 12 th, and you lived in the sunny neighborhood of Alternia, where you attended a perfectly normal elementary school. From there, you progressed to an extremely average high school. Now, after being accepted, you're entering a prestigious regular college. Skaia University was founded in the 1880's, and is situated in the middle of a small humdrum town. The locals are nice enough, though they're rarely seen, and the student body is decent enough. You assume it'll be nothing but easy sailing from here. You'll get your degree, then go to law school, where you'll obtain the necessary credentials to become a prosecutor.

Today is move in day, and you're beyond excited to prepare your new space. The room is fairly small, perhaps a little over three meters square, and it features a single bunk bed. The desks are positioned well enough to remain where they are. One is against the southern wall, along which there's a large window and a sink; the other is to the north, sharing a wall with the entry door. On the eastern wall, along with a door to the bathroom, there are two tiny closets. You claim the one closest to the window, and begin to set up your things. You also claim the desk on the southern wall, as well as the dresser beside it.

You decorate the wall on your side with posters of some of your favorite stars. There's Arjun Rampal, Anil Kapoor, the essential Shah Rukh Khan, and some others. Your bed, the lower bunk, is neatly made, sporting a colorful quilt made for you by your mother. A flourishing peace lily goes on the windowsill, and you stock the desk's bookshelf with your textbooks. A desk calendar is neatly set atop a stack of old CD covers, which you've repurposed as a display stand, and all of your pens are held in the built in compartment on your desk lamp's base.

When everything is settled, you bid farewell to your parents. You look around once again.

Dave has moved in already. That much is obvious. His things are stacked in precarious piles all around the room. An electric DJ's turntable sits on top of his dresser, and the drawers hang open. You see little inside. There are some socks, a few red and white baseball shirts, a polo shirt, and two pairs of jeans. Beyond this, it seems he owns little more than the sheets on his bed, his textbooks, and a tattered leather jacket. All of it reeks of a mix of cigarette smoke and alcohol. It's an overpowering smell, and you quickly spray it down with a healthy dose of air freshener. Now, at the very least, the room smells more like French vanilla, with only vague underpinnings of the original stench.

Shortly afterwards, you hear a quiet tapping. It echoes up and down the hallway, until there's a beep from the electronic fob reader outside your door. When the door opens, you get your first look at your new roommate. He's the exact opposite of you in every possible way. He towers above you, standing a solid six feet tall (at least). Your skin is a rich medium brown, and your slightly curled but often messy hair is black; he's the palest person you've ever met, and his neatly groomed hair is a light golden blond. His face is long, his jaw pronounced, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of reflective black shades.

"I'm guessing you're Dave?" you ask, quirking your brow.

He shrugs. His expression remains the definition of apathy, with his lips forming little more than a straight line of indifference. When he speaks, his voice matches. It's a monotone, and the only sign of humanity is a pronounced southern drawl. "And I'm assumin' you're the one who made my room smell like an old folk's home just finished fuckin' up an ice cream store?"

"Yeah. Hello to you, too, douchebag," you huff. Now, you know exactly one thing about your roommate: he's a raging asshole. "At least I'm not wearing shades inside, like some sort of fucking wannabe cool kid from the 1990's."

Dave pauses. He reaches into the pocket of his tattered black jeans and pulls out something. When he flicks his wrist, it extends into a fairly long white cane. "I sure as hell can't see your face from here, but I can imagine what it looks like. Boy, do I love pulling that one on people." He folds the cane up, stuffs it back into his pocket, and wanders around the room. From time to time, he sweeps one foot out in front of him, presumably feeling for something to trip on.

You, meanwhile, remain frozen in place. Your cheeks burn, though you know no one can see your blush. Your fingers are curled into fists, and your temper is rising. You'd been notified that your roommate had a "unique situation" in an email over the summer, but you'd never been told what it was. You just assumed he had some sort of weird habit, like hoarding tortoise shells or jarring dead things. Maybe he was having personal problems. You would have loved to have known your roommate was blind before you actually moved in, then opened your goddamned mouth.

"So, what? You're Karlos? Carlton?" Dave turns to look at you. He spins his folded cane between his fingers. "You're something Vantas, right?"

"Karkat," you growl. Your blood is boiling, and your heart pounds against your chest.

"Weird name." Dave shrugs. He turns his back to you, feels around on top of his dresser, and pulls down his turntables. He sets them on his desk, then turns his attentions back to you. "Anyhow, yeah. I'll let the cat out of the bag right now. I'm not exactly swimmin' in inky black darkness, but it's a fuckin' nightmare for me to deal with too much shit where it shouldn't be. I'd love if you could maybe notify me if you're moving any furniture, or plan on leaving too much trash on the floor. I'm a hell of a slob, too, but I've gotta keep it organized."

You nod slowly. At this point, you want nothing to do with your roommate. He's already pissed you off and humiliated you, so it's not as if he's one for first impressions.

Yet, he continues talking. By now, a pair of trashy old headphones hang around his neck. "By the way, we're in the same orientation group. It's based on hallway, so we'll be doing a lot of bonding this weekend."

"I can hardly contain my excitement," you grumble, gathering your things. You shove them into your messenger bag, and abscond from your room as quickly as you can.

You retreat to the downstairs lobby, where you settle in on one of the two sofas. You open up your laptop, and continue to work on finishing some old writing.

Eventually, though, you grow tired. Your clock tells you it's roughly 10:00 PM, and you figure you should be trying to return to your dorm. Once again, you gather your things. After placing them in your bag, you return upstairs.

When you open the door to your room, you're immediately accosted by the smell of freshly roasted coffee. It's an odd scent, seeing as you don't have a coffee maker in your room, but you figure Dave simply picked some up from the campus café. If not, he probably found someone else on the hall with one.

"You're going to bed already?" Dave asks. A single brow rises above the rims of his stupid shades.

You don't respond. For now, you'll follow your dad's advice. Responding is only adding fuel to the fire, and you're far too tired for that can of putrid worms tonight. You change, climb into your bed, and swiftly fall asleep.

When you wake up, Dave's bed is empty. He's nowhere to be found, and it's a comforting feeling. You prepare for the day with a bit more pep in your step than you would have had otherwise, and walk down to the dining hall.

There, however, you're greeted by someone unexpectedly throwing an arm over your shoulder. A white cane hits your stomach, and an unmistakable voice greets you. "Howdy, Karkat. I was just coming to wake you up for orientation. But, hey, since you're already here, I might as well show you to John." He doesn't wait for you to answer. Instead, he pulls you along behind him. His cane moves rhythmically. When he steps on his left foot, it moves right; when he steps on his right foot, it swings left. The movements are well-versed and familiar, which makes you think he's done this for a while.

Eventually, you stop in front of a table occupied by a man with tan skin and messy black hair. His almond-shaped eyes are a brilliant sky blue, and his buck-toothed grin is almost contagious. "So this is your roommate, Dave?"

"Yeah. He's an okay dude, I guess." Dave pats you on the back.

You're unsure if you should take his words as a compliment.

John, meanwhile, plows ahead. "Name's John Egbert. I'm Dave's best friend, and maybe his only one." John snickers at this comment. Then, like Dave, he keeps going without any input. "Those are some sick earbuds, by the way."

You pause. You open your mouth to ask him what the fuck he's talking about. Then, his words register with you. "They're hearing aids, you absolute dumbass."

Dave lets forth little more than a snort of laughter. He sits down, taking the spot beside John, and turns to face you. "You're welcome to eat with us, if you want."

"I'll let you two catch up, actually," you grumble, shuffling off to grab your own plate.

Clearly, this is going to be a long year.

* * *

By the third day, you've learned little from the inhumane number of icebreakers and various introductory speeches. You've met few people of any interest, save for a couple a few doors down the hall from you.

Rose is Dave's cousin. Her skin is tanner, though still pale, and her hair is a much darker blonde. She has a fuller build than Dave, and is more comparable to you in height and intellect. She sympathizes with your situation, and has offered to discipline Dave whenever he's being a piece of shit. You have a feeling this will be an offer you take her up on more than a few times this year.

Kanaya is Rose's girlfriend. She's about as tall as Dave, and she's slender. Her skin is a flawless dark brown, and she keeps her black hair perfectly styled. You've had a few discussions with her about the nature of the campus, and about how to avoid Dave. Apparently, she's not exactly fond of him, either. She's confided that she believes he's a bit pompous, and that his personality isn't a good match with hers.

Of course, you can't spend all your time with Rose and Kanaya. while you'd find that preferable to staying in your own room, you _do_ have to sleep in your dorm. Every night, when you return, you find Dave sipping a fresh cup of coffee, and tonight is no different. It's something which puzzles you, and you're certain he hasn't left the room. He sticks out like a thumb with a weeping blister. You would have seen him leave, and you would have _heard_  him leave. And, tonight, you finally ask him, "Where the fuck do you keep getting that coffee?"

"From my fridge," he shrugs. He opens his fridge, revealing a canister of ground coffee beans. It's a cheap, generic brand, and you're not entirely sure how he could possibly palate such a thing. Nonetheless, you don't ask. You let him continue speaking. "Don't worry about it."

You nod. Honestly, you wouldn't worry about it if it was something as minor as a cup of tea. That can be easily heated in the microwave. You'd see the teabags in the trash. Instead, you keep seeing nothing but pure coffee grounds. They're tossed in the trash in loose clumps, but you've yet to see any evidence of a filter. While you know of a few people who drink their coffee with the grounds in it, Dave doesn't seem to be one of those people. Beyond that, his coffee isn't black. You've noticed him mixing in milk and sugar, yet you never see any evidence of grounds in his cup. It's a perplexing mystery, and it's one you resolve to solve before the year is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  **   
>  [Here's a link to the image on my blog!](http://godtiermeme.tumblr.com/post/165480491497/this-is-for-my-most-recent-not-surprisingly)   
> 


	2. Caravan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Here's the song** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkLBSLxo5LE)

Your first day of actual classes goes well. You like your teachers, you like the courses, and your peers seem to be pretty decent people. The absolute best thing is that, so far, you've yet to see Dave in any of these classes. He seems to spend most of his time spinning those stupid turntables and listening to music, actually. He claims to have classes, but you've yet to see him going to or coming from one. Then again, you probably have different schedules.

Whatever the case is, you return to your room at around 7:00 PM. He's sitting at his desk, enjoying what appears to be some freshly grilled chicken wings.

"Where the hell did you get those? The dining hall was only serving shitty mashed potatoes and dry turkey strips," you sputter, staring at the succulent leg of meat.

Dave shrugs, though he still answers. "There's a grill outside, behind the building. John tells me you can see it from our window."

You scramble forwards, to the aforementioned window, and look down. Sure enough, nestled amidst the sea of red brick pathways, is a pair of outdoor grills. They're the sort you see in parks, where a long pole holds them in place. They're not portable, and they're not the best, but they're definitely grills. They're surfaces you can cook on, and, if tonight's dining hall options were any indicator of the quality to come, you have a feeling you'll be using them. Then again, this raises another question. "Where the fuck did you get something to start the fire?"

To answer your inquiry, Dave reaches into his pants pocket. He pulls out an old Zippo lighter, lights a flame, then puts it out. His left brow rises above the rims of his shades as he concludes, saying, "Really? Are you going to make a whole detective show about this? I've got a flashlight, and we can kill the lights and set this up like a full-blown interrogation."

"I don't want an interrogation, I just think you're fucking weird," you mutter.

Again, Dave shrugs. He continues playing with his turntable for a few minutes. Then, without warning, he stops. He spins his desk chair around to face you. "Ain't it weird they put the blind kid and the deaf kid together?"

You frown. "I have a hard time hearing. I'm not deaf," you reply matter-of-factly. You've always needed for things to be a bit louder than most people would like to hear them. After a while, your parents got you fitted with hearing aids, and it's been smooth sailing since then. "And, yeah, I fucking guess?"

For the first time, you see a hint of emotion on Dave's face. The edges of his lips curl upwards, though they quickly return to their usual state. As if nothing had happened, he turns back around. He fires up the turntables again, and keeps mixing.

You don't know what it sounds like, but it seems he's fairly proficient. At the very least, his actions are well-coordinated and smooth. You find yourself watching him, and it's fascinating. His touch is light, and his movements are calculated. He seems to know exactly where every knob and button and switch is set on the device. He nods along to the rhythm, and keeps his eyes focused on the magnified computer screen in front of him. As much as you hate to admit it, there's something graceful about the way he works. There's a set beat, an established routine, and an obvious knowledge of the layout of his device.

"Fuck." The performance stops. Dave sits upright, pulling his headphones from his computer. A cacophony of discordant sounds plays, stopping only when Dave fumbles with his computer's volume. He pulls his phone from his pocket, and answers it. "You've reached Dave Strider, how can I..." His voice catches in his throat. "Yeah. Bro. I know you're not paying for any of this. Yeah, yeah, I'm a stupid failure." He sighs. Perhaps unconsciously, he tangles his fingers in his hair. For the first time, you notice that the roots of his hair aren't blond. Rather, they're a strange, almost translucent white. "Bro, I'm an adult. I don't live with you any more. I can... Yeah. Okay. Yeah, fuck you, too, asshole." At this point, he hangs up.

Though you don't exactly like him, you feel obligated to at least check on him. After all, you don't want to be known as the campus's shittiest roommate. "Everything okay down there, Strider?"

Not to your surprise, Dave nods. "Everything's fucking peachy," he says, his voice dismissive. "Look, can I ask you a favor? Don't tell anyone 'bout this."

You nod. Honestly, you don't have a reason to do so. As far as you know, he's having an argument with his brother. You argue with Kankri all the time, so you see nothing of any consequence happening right now. "Sure. Whatever."

"Awesome." Dave breathes a long, enigmatic sigh. He reaches into his fridge, pulls out his coffee, and spoons some of the pulverized beans into his mug. After filling it with water, he wanders into the bathroom. He returns a few minutes later, now sporting a steaming cup of coffee. He holds the grounds in what appears to be a reusable cloth filter, which is shoved into a small porcelain cone. This isn't exactly odd, though the fact that the cloth is already dry strikes you as strange. What _is_ odd is that you didn't hear the water running long enough for it to have gotten warm.

You keep these suspicions to yourself, though. Now probably isn't the best time to confront him about it.

As if to confirm this, Dave drops into his desk chair with a loud huff. He pulls milk from the fridge, mixes it in, and adds some sugar from the cup in his desk drawer. After this, he eagerly consumes the entire mug. When he's done, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "Fucking stupid asshole," he grumbles, seemingly to himself, as he rinses the mug out in the sink. "Goddamned pompous piece of shit." He continues muttering as he clambers up the ladder and into the top bunk. At this point, however, you can't really hear what he's saying.

* * *

When morning comes, Dave seems to be in a better mood. He sits at his desk, his feet resting atop its surface, and sips from yet another mysterious mug of coffee. He seems to be focused on his phone, which is plugged into the headphones he's wearing. From what you can see, it looks like he's listening to something on YouTube. You're not too sure, though, and you're not exactly about to stare intensely at his personal activities.

Instead, you roll out of bed and prepare yourself for the day ahead. Tuesdays are the same as your Thursdays, and you have two classes. There's Intro to Ancient Law, and there's Art History Survey 1, which seems to just be a broad overview of art history. The course description billed it as a showcase of art from prehistory to the early medieval period. It seems like an interesting class, and you've heard good things about the professor.

"Do you mind if I tag along with you to breakfast? John had an early class, and I'm not too sure exactly where I'm going yet." While he usually speaks with a strong mid-pitch voice, Dave poses this question quietly. He seems to avoid looking in your direction.

You shrug. "Whatever. Yeah."

Dave offers an appreciative nod. He follows you out, keeping up with your speed easily. He keeps his cane out, with the rounded ball at the end just barely touching the ground as he sweeps it back and forth. It scrapes against the pavement, and you're quick to add this to a list of sounds you hate being able to hear. "It said online they're having blueberry waffles, buttermilk pancakes, and scrambled eggs out for today's menu. I'm not too sure I'm willing to completely believe that, but I'll assume that's what's up."

If the smell is anything to go by, he's right. And, inside, the posted menu is confirmed.

Dave swipes for his meal first. The cashier runs his student ID through the reader, then hands the card back. Afterwards, Dave eagerly wanders off. He heaps an inordinate amount of food onto his plate, then retreats to a table in the corner.

You take your time. You select your meal, getting an even amount of scrambled eggs and oatmeal, before wandering to the main dining area. By the time you notice Dave, he's eaten half of his breakfast. You, meanwhile, sit down at a different table and enjoy yours. You take time to consider the fact that the food is, quite honestly, bad. Perhaps Dave had the right idea. The faster you eat the food, the less you'll have to suffer through the actual taste. You wind up inhaling your breakfast, too, before going to wait for your first class.


	3. Fine on the Outside

The first time you actually bother to take a good look at Dave's eyes is after class on your second (or fourth, depending on how you're counting) day. As usual, when you enter the room, it's dark. You've grown accustomed to this.

On this particular day, Dave actually seems to be studying. He's hunched over one of his textbooks, magnifying glass in hand, muttering obscenities to himself. You notice that the left eye is clouded over, though you're able to see that the pupil beneath is misshapen. Notably, the bones around his left eye seem slightly out of place. It's not enough to be noticeable without a good, hard look at his face, but it's there. The other eye is an odd, slightly translucent hazel. It seems to shake rapidly back and forth and, when the glare from his computer hits it the right way, it seems to turn red.

"Oh." He pauses. He turns his face toward you, and cocks his head a bit to the side. "Hey. You just walkin' in, or have I been doing this shit for so long that it's nighttime?"

"I just got here," you shrug.

Dave nods. He returns to his textbook.

You step inside. His cane is tossed carelessly in the middle of the floor. You assume he had it leaning against a wall, and it fell. Naturally, you lean over to pick it up. If there's one thing you refuse to be, it's the shithead who broke your blind roommate's cane. "Looks like this fell over. You want me to put this anywhere in particular, or—" You don't have time to finish the statement.

To your surprise, Dave charges at you. He elbows you in the stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs, and takes the cane when you drop it. Then, for the first time since you've met him, he shows genuine emotion. A look of realization crosses his face. His eyes widen, his jaw drops open, and he quickly backs up. "Shit. Sorry. That's... I'm used to people breaking it. Sorry."

"I was just trying to do a good fucking deed, you brainless oaf. God-fucking-dammit, I..." The meaning of his words sinks in. You pause. "People... break it?" You know that there are some absolute pieces of shit inhabiting this planet. You've been bullied enough to realize that. Still, you've never had anyone break your hearing aids. And, if you had, you're sure you'd react the same way. "What the actual shit?"

"It's a long story," Dave mutters. His gaze falls to the floor. "Look, just... Don't touch it, okay? I kind of need it. Like, I really, actually need it so I don't end up falling all over myself, so... Shit." He groans. His fingers tangle themselves in his hair, and his brows furrow. Somehow, you get the feeling that he's more vulnerable without his shades. You can see his emotions more clearly, and he's far more expressive than you'd thought he would be. "Let's just say I ain't from the best family. And we'll leave it there, okay?"

You nod.

Dave folds his cane up and holds it close to his chest. He returns to his desk, and resumes working on what he'd been doing before.

Now, though, you're curious. There's more to Dave than you gave him credit for. He's obviously not the entitled douchebag you'd initially written him off as, but you can't tell exactly what he is. You don't know what his deal is with his coffee, either. "Strider?"

He pauses. Again, he turns to face you.

"How long've you been working on that textbook?"

He shrugs. After a few seconds, he comes to a conclusion, "Five or six hours. It's been a while. I..." Here, he pauses. It seems as if he's trying to keep something from you, but you're not about to ask what. As it is, you've already entrenched yourself in his shit far more than you would have liked to. Which is to say, you've actually involved yourself in his business. "I'm a music guy, not a reading guy. I'd really have liked if they let me buy the electronic versions, but those were way too fuckin' expensive."

A long, begrudged sigh escapes you. Curse your good nature. "Do you want some help?"

Dave stares at you as if you've grown an additional twenty heads. "What's the catch?"

"There is no fucking 'catch'," you groan. Though you know he probably can't see it, you add air quotes. Honestly, you're beginning to wonder what sort of life Dave lived before he came here. So far, you know he's slow to trust people. This also seems to hint that he's had few interactions with decent people. "It's called helping for a reason. _I'm_ going to help _you_ , and you don't have to do shit in return. It's a thing people do all the fucking time. Like, when people hold the door open. Obviously, you don't have to stand there like a dumbass bellboy and hold it open for everyone else to ever enter the same building."

Slowly, Dave nods. He's still wary, but he seems more open to your suggestion. "Sure. I guess. I've never really owned a physical book before, so this is a huge pain in my ass. Think of David and Goliath. Obviously, I'm the handsome and ultimately successful David, and this book is that massive headache, Goliath. You get what I'm throwing down?"

"Nope."

Dave shrugs. He sticks a notecard in his book and hands it to you. "I've gotten through most of it, but it'd be great if you could read the last few paragraphs. The longer and harder I stare at things, the more my eyes tend to check the fuck out. 'Nope, this is bullshit. We're just going to wobble like toothpicks in Jello in an earthquake.' That's what they're probably saying."

Now, you nod. You disregard his long-winded rambling, which you're starting to consider a nervous habit of his, and open the textbook. "Jōmon pottery is named for its construction, which is comprised of rolled rope-like clay coils. These coils are stacked to form various pots, which were likely used to store a considerable selection of nuts, berries, and edible plant matter. The tapered ends of these vessels would be placed in the dirt, partially buried, in order to provide primitive refrigeration. The emergence of such pottery marks an intriguing development in the hunter-gatherer society, as it signifies the rise of a semi-sedentary civilization." Here, you pause. When you look up, it becomes apparent that Dave hasn't written anything down. "Are you listening, or are you just going to stare at me with that fucking awful slack-jawed look of freakish ecstasy?"

Dave frowns. He shakes his head. "You have a nice voice, man. That ain't my fault," he grumbles. You're certain you weren't supposed to hear this. "Fine. My pencil's ready to write down some knowledge."

You repeat yourself, wait until he's done writing, and continue to the next paragraph. "Jōmon pottery is marked by periods, distinguished by the pottery's complexity. The most detailed vessels are from the High Jōmon era. These feature winding, twisting, interlocking patterns. The possible use of such ornate decoration is unknown, but speculated to be ceremonial."

Dave shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest.

You take the pause in the discussion to ask him a question. "Why are you taking art history?"

"Like I said, I ain't totally blind. I can see at about 20/200. So, what you'd see at 200 feet away is what I see at twenty feet away. And I'm a little worse than that." Dave says this all matter-of-factly. You suppose that's understandable, as it seems he's lived with this his entire life. "I mean..." he taps his pencil's eraser against his forearm. "I can't see with my left. That one's totally useless. I could get more utility by putting some milk in a toy fridge and lettin' it rot. So, really, it's just the right eye. I've got shit depth perception, too, so there's that."

You whistle. "Well, you're fucked up more than Rasputin when he finally died, aren't you?"

A breathy laugh escapes Dave.

You continue reading. "Jōmon peoples also created intricate dogū figurines. These are often found with a missing leg, and it is believed to have been broken off in some sort of ceremony. These dogū were manufactured solely during this time period." You pause, having reached the end of the paragraph, and look at Dave.

He finishes writing notes, then looks at you. "That's all I needed to read. Thanks for the help, Karkat. I guess you ain't half bad after all." Returning his pencil to his desk drawer, he turns his attentions to his notes. The writing is large and messy, though it's legible. While you wouldn't know without comparison, it seems he uses wide rule paper. This doesn't exactly strike you as odd.

"You're interested in this sort of stuff?" you ask, returning the book to Dave's desk.

Dave, now in the process of transcribing his notes to his computer, nods. "It's neat. When we were moving from Texas to here, back when my dad was still a dad and not some deadbeat bastard, he took me to a museum. One of the people there had done some pretty neat shit with scanning and printing out artifacts. They had some out on display, near the back of the place, for people to touch. Most of the shit was boring as fuck, like your typical ancient Greek crap, but they had a few replicas of these sort of pots." A brief hint of a smile crosses Dave's face, though it quickly disappears. "I didn't really have much experience outside the house after that, so I guess it just stuck around in my head like a stubborn flea."

"But you _can_ see some?" you ask, strangely fascinated by Dave's tale.

A few seconds of silence follow this. He taps away at his keyboard with the utmost diligence, then, he looks at you. "I'd need to be way closer to the art than they'd let the goddamned POTUS, much less some fucked up kid, to actually see anything worth talking about." He turns back to his computer, and continues typing. Still, he keeps speaking, "Anyhow, yeah, I used to have slightly better vision. My left eye could see around 40/200 with glasses, but it went the way of the dinosaurs when I fell down the stairs."

"You fell down the stairs?"

"I was seven, it was dark, and my dad wouldn't buy me a cane. Something about me not needing it. I landed face-first on a barbell, and a lot of gory details followed." Dave pauses. He stares at his notes, then goes back to typing.

Not wanting to get any sort of mental image of this scenario, you end the discussion. You grab your laptop, crawl into your bed, and begin working on your own homework.

* * *

Later, after dinner, you visit Rose and Kanaya.

Kanaya isn't in the room, but Rose is. She sits atop her bed, working on knitting something. It appears to be a blanket, and it's progressing at breakneck speeds. Honestly, you're not sure if the pace she's going at should be humanly possible. Nevertheless, you don't comment on it. Instead, you offer a casual wave. "So, where's Kanaya?"

"She went to go pick up some groceries. Do you need her?" Rose offers a thin smile.

You sit down on the floor. The room, unlike yours, smells of freshly picked flowers and old books. It's a fantastic scent, and you take the opportunity to breathe it in as much as possible. "Actually, I was looking for you."

Rose quirks her brow inquisitively. "Really? Come to talk more about my cousin? He really is a pain in the ass sometimes."

"Actually, I was wondering what the fuck his past was like. I know I have about as little chance of getting him to tell me as a dinosaur escaping its eminent doom. So, I was hoping you could offer some information." You eye Rose over. The placid smile remains on her face, and it's as enigmatic as ever. If there's one thing that confirms that she and Dave are related, it's their ability to maintain a completely inexplicable emotional air about themselves.

After a few minutes of silence, she replies, "I won't give you everything you should know on my cousin, as that would violate his privacy and his trust in me. I can tell you, however, that he's had a tumultuous life. His father was a worthless drunkard, and his mother died soon after he was born. He spent his early childhood in Houston, Texas, then moved here. I rarely saw him or heard from him after that."

"Oh." You find yourself revising your idea of Dave even more. You wonder what's hidden beneath his aloof veneer, and you become even more determined to find out. "He also has this thing, where he keeps managing to go into our solo bathroom and come out with a cup of fucking hot coffee. It makes absolutely no sense to me."

Rose laughs. It's a soft, delicate sound. "You'll have to ask him that, and I doubt he'll just tell you his secrets."

"Yeah," you grumble, "I fucking figured." With this said, you fold your arms across your chest. You lean your back against the side of Kanaya's desk, and begin discussing things with Rose. They're of little importance, and range in subject matter from the weather to the intricacies of emotional investment in writing. It's a stimulating conversation, and it leaves you feeling refreshed. At the very least, it drains you less than a conversation with Dave would.


	4. Blue [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I won't make any chapters named after anime songs," I said. [**And, yet, here we are.**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RuylPp-uUE)

On Thursday, your fourth day of classes, Dave is gone when you wake up. You find this strange, as he left without taking his laptop. He _always_ has his laptop, and you're certain it's a lifeline of sorts for him. It's a means for him to interact with the visual world, and you know he uses it extensively in class. You consider calling him and checking on him, but decide against it. He's probably out for breakfast, or doing some other strange Strider activity.

You go to your classes, as you should, and return. Yet, when you enter the room, it's still empty. Dave's laptop remains on his desk. You go down the hall, to John's room, and learn that he also hasn't heard from Dave. You leave it at that, though, and return to your room. You breeze through your homework, and occupy yourself afterwards with some light reading.

Then, around 7:00 PM, the door opens. Dave stumbles in. Traces of dry blood are visible below his nostrils, and gauze is wrapped around his right palm. After shutting off the lights, he removes his shades, revealing a black eye.

"What the fuck happened to you?" The question is, you feel, only natural.

Dave seems to think otherwise. He waves his hand dismissively, saying, "It's none of your business. Just a stupid fight. Don't worry 'bout it." Here, he pauses. He seems to consider drinking some coffee, but ultimately decides against it. Instead, he stumbles to the end of the bed. He feels his way up, though he does so with far less speed than usual.

And, so continues the mystery of your roommate.

On Friday, Dave sleeps in. You prepare for class without bothering him, and attend your courses dutifully. Today, you have the same classes as on Mondays and Wednesdays. You're free by 3:00 PM, at which point you begin wandering back to your room. You stop, however, when you notice Dave sitting on one of the campus's many wrought iron benches A cigarette hangs from his mouth and, as you look on, he snaps his fingers. A small flame hovers above his index finger, and he lights his cigarette with this before allowing it to fade.

You're certain no one else noticed this. Hell, there's few people around, but you know what you saw. And you're not about to be quiet about it. You rush towards him, get between him and the library in front of him, and demand to know what the hell you just witnessed. "Strider!"

Dave jumps. His face turns to you, and a small frown flashes across his face. "Oh... Karkat. Don't do that, dude, you'll give me a fuckin' heart attack."

"Your cigarette," you insist, "How the hell did you light that?"

Dave shrugs. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the full lighter from before, and raises his left eyebrow. "I used a lighter. What the fuck did you think I did."

"I SAW YOU!" you exclaim. Some people are staring, now, and you're probably going down at the guy who harasses the blind kids, but you're not going to let him talk his way out of this one. "You snapped your fingers and lit it like some sort of fucking wizard. You can't possibly have the gall to look me in the eyes and tell me you just reached into your pocket and pulled out that thing, because I'm not falling for it."

Again, Dave shrugs. "Cool down, dude, you're going to pop a blood vessel."

"I AM NOT GOING TO COOL IT," you thunder, stepping forward. You intend to continue grilling him until he gives you an answer, but his reaction stops you.

He throws his hands over his head, ducks, and cowers. His cigarette falls from his mouth, and fizzles out in the sand beneath his feet. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "Please don't hit me, Bro, I'm sorry."

By now, you realize that a small crowd has gathered. You breathe a deep, disgruntled sigh. Your reputation as the campus monster is sealed. More than that, your anger has dissipated. You lower your voice and kneel down in front of Dave. "I wasn't going to fucking hit you, Strider," you mutter. You offer him your hand.

He shrinks back. His voice is even softer. "I'm real sorry. I..."

"Look, i wasn't going to hit you." You raise your hands in the air to demonstrate this. "Come on, Strider, you're making me look really fucking bad."

Dave frowns. Slowly, he lowers his arms. Tears have left trails down his face, and his breathing is fast and shallow. You can't see his eyes, but you feel like he's staring at you. "You won't hit me?" he asks, his voice uncertain. He cocks his head to the side.

"No," you say, keeping your voice as soft as you possibly can. "I'm never going to hit you, Strider. I don't exactly like you, but that's no fucking reason for me to walk around decking you in the face." Again, you offer him your hand. "Come on, let's get back to the room before I look like an even shittier person."

Dave nods. His hand seems to interlock perfectly with yours, and it's warm. His skin is soft, yet you feel evidence of old callouses. "Yeah. Sorry." When he's gained his footing, he releases his grasp on your hand. He stumbles to his feet, grabs his cane, and follows you to the room. He stays about a yard behind you and, when you finally reach the room, he enters slowly. He drops into his desk chair, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and mutters another apology. "Sorry, Karkat."

"No, that was my fault. Karkat Vantas ruins the fucking day, as usual. I shouldn't have yelled at you." You, too, sit at your desk. You keep your gaze locked on the floor, and you're unwilling to even look at Dave. "I'd never fucking hit you, though. What the actual fuck gave you that idea?"

After a few sniffles, Dave shrugs. He folds up his cane and twirls it between his fingers. "Bro... I mean... My dad wasn't the nicest guy. Yesterday, I sort of lied when I said I fell down the stairs. He... uh... He sort of threw me." Here, Dave shakes his head. "But it was to toughen me up, he didn't know what would happen," he insists.

You, meanwhile, let the weight of this statement sink in. It seems the more you learn about Dave, the more complex he gets. He's gone from a callous douchebag to the poster child for the symptoms of abuse in a matter of days. Where you'd thought his standoffish apathy was nothing more than a stupid act, it seems it was a defense mechanism. "I'm sorry," you say, quite pathetically.

Dave shrugs. "It is what it is, I suppose. He did it all the time. That was the only real time it went really bad."

"That's not fucking normal," you respond.

Again, Dave shrugs. "He wanted me to be tough. I mean, I get it. I've been scammed and mugged. He wanted to set me up for the real world."

"That's not how you fucking do that," you protest.

Dave ignores your input. He pulls off his shades, and sets them on his desk. For the first time, you notice the faded surgical scars along his left temple. They're usually hidden beneath the arm of his shades, but they're visible now. In fact, the lines stretch all around the left eye, as if something had to undergo extensive repair. "We used to have some pretty wicked fights, too. They toughened me up a lot, and I like to think they had a purpose."

"Fights?" you ask, though you almost don't want to know. Honestly, the more you learn about Dave's father, the more apt Rose's description becomes.

"Okay, mostly him beating me up. But, like I said, it was to keep me on my toes. I mean, he felt bad afterwards. He'd sober up, take me to the hospital, and let them patch me up. The worst that ever happened was some facial fractures, and they didn't hurt that much." He sounds unbelievably calm about this, and you're starting to think he's simply denying the facts.

Moreover, you're aware that arguing with him is useless. So, you engage him in conversation. "Is that what fucked up your left eye?"

"That and the barbell. The orbital bone got crushed at some point. That hurt some... still kind of hurts, seeing as they couldn't fix it completely." Dave pauses. He rubs his chin, which is beginning to show signs of silvery stubble, and stares absentmindedly at the overhead light. It's off, but you assume that's how he prefers it to be. "Thanks for calming me down, by the way." His cheeks burn a brilliant pink, and you're guessing his pale skin only intensifies the effect. "You're a good guy. Better than I am, at least."

Again, you don't bother protesting. You simply nod. "I feel like a raging anus. The festering heel of society," you mutter. "I'm really fucking sorry for setting you off like that. I honestly didn't know that would happen."

"You couldn't have. And, uh, it's a reasonable reaction to that sort of shit. I mean... The truth is I can do some shit most people can't. Rose can, too. It just happens in some people. So, like..." Dave pauses. Again, he snaps his fingers. A flame bursts forth, hovering just above his index finger, as it had before. "It's something I've been able to do for a while. I'd be mighty appreciative if you did't go blabbing about this to people, because it ain't exactly something that everyone should know about."

"Got it," you say.

Now, you've confirmed something else about your roommate: he's a goddamned wizard. Your year has barely even started, and it's already turning into a massive clusterfuck. You're rooming with a magical asshole with various personal problems, and one of the two women you've been confiding in also shares these powers. At this point, you wouldn't be surprised if a dragon swooped down and plucked you from the campus. Honestly, you'd be glad if that happened. You wouldn't have to deal with any of this drama. Sure, you avoided high school drama, but it just came to bite you in the ass in college.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  **   
>  [Here's a link to the art post!](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/165516493994/heres-a-little-dave-strider-again-when-will-a)   
> 


	5. The Music of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNING:** One (1) mention of a homophobic slur, which starts with "F".

On Saturday, when you wake up, you find Dave mixing music at his desk. This is anything but a surprising development, and it pales in comparison to the information you learned yesterday. Still, you feel as if you should give him a chance. If anything, he needs a friend. Sure, he's a douchebag, but you might be able to curb that. Besides, he's not exactly the worst to look at. When he notices you're awake, he offers you a small wave. Presumably, he finishes mixing his song before speaking up. He pulls off his headphones and glances in your direction, though his eyes don't exactly fall on you. "John and I were going to walk around town some. It's a pretty small place, so we're figuring we can do it in a day or two. You're welcome to join us."

You, already in the process of changing, mull over the possibilities. You have little homework, and you're not exactly a popular guy on campus. After yesterday, you're sure you never will be. "Why the fuck not?" you say, shrugging.

Thus, you end up wandering the scenic small town streets of Skaia. The pace is slower than you'd like, mostly because of Dave.

"Come on, my Nanna can walk faster than you," John goads.

"First of all, your Nanna is dead. I know because I sneaked out of the house to send you a fucking sympathy card. And I'm thinking real hard about rescinding my kind words, Egbert," Dave replies. His expression remains as apathetic as ever, though you and John both understand that he's joking. "Secondly, the last time they repaired the sidewalks must have been when the first goddamned biblical flood happened. All I'm feeling here are weeds and broken chunks of sad, disenfranchised pavement." He stumbles slightly, catches onto your shoulder, and blushes. "Shit. Sorry."

"No problem," you respond. "So, are we getting breakfast?"

"There's a café just down the street, across the railroad tracks," Dave explains. As you reach the busy intersection dividing the campus from the northern part of town, you instinctively grab his arm. He pauses, turns to you, and cocks his head to the side. "I appreciate the concern, buddy, but I can handle myself." He pulls away from your grasp and offers a flicker of a smile.

You, meanwhile, feel heat rising to your cheeks. "Yeah. I figured. I just wanted to make sure."

By now, the three of you have crossed the road. Dave's cane continues scraping against the ground, providing an unending wealth of ear-grating torture. You're heading east, and shops line the sidewalk. Many of them have been converted into offices, but a few remain retail venues.

"Hey, this one might be right up your alley, Dave. It's a record store." John's voice causes the group to come to a halt.

You look towards him, and see a small, nondescript storefront. _Wayward Vinyl_ is stenciled on the window, which looks onto row after row of records.

Dave tilts his head to the left. He studies the shop's façade, though you're not sure how much he's getting from it. Eventually, he speaks up, "Are any of you dying of hunger?"

"Nope, and I'd like to see what's in here," John says, offering one of his cheerful grins.

Having eaten some oatmeal before heading out, you agree. "Yeah. I'm fine to see what sort of shit this place might have out."

Dave nods. He holds his cane vertically, waits until it hits the small step to the front door, and continues. Once he's inside, he folds his cane up and stows it in his pocket. He sweeps his foot out in front of him, finds a good spot to step forward, and continues. As with everything he seems to do, it's cold, calculated, and well-rehearsed. In fact, you're inclined to say he's more methodical this way than with his cane.

"What're you looking for?" you ask, jogging to catch up with Dave.

He shrugs. He stops before one of the many folding tables and runs his hands over the exposed cardboard record sleeves. The edges of his lips inch upwards, forming a small smile. "I'll buy anything, really." He pulls a record sleeve from the fray and hands it to you. "What's this?"

You take the sleeve, dust the front off, and stare at the cover. It's lifted directly from some old oil painting of a battle, though you don't know the specifics. When you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the old wooden boards beneath your feet creak. "Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture," you read aloud. You flip the sleeve over, and scrutinize the track listing. "Track A1 is the 1812 Overture. What a fucking surprise. A2 is a waltz, and the entire B side is Romeo and Juliet."

Dave pulls his cane out and spins it between his fingers. You're beginning to think this is one of his many odd habits. "Not quite my speed." He reaches into the hoard of records again, and pulls out something different. He studies it for a few minutes before offering it to you. "I think this one is Tommy, by The Who. Mom left me a copy, but Bro broke it. I'd like to find another one."

Keeping your commentary about Bro to yourself, you look at the cardboard sleeve. It's exactly what Dave said it was, and a yellow price tag in the corner indicates that it's not an expensive item. "It's $5."

After putting his cane away, Dave clutches the album to his chest. He heads back to the front desk, where John is busy chatting up the owner, and sets the record on the countertop. "You wouldn't mind playing this a little, would you?"

The owner shakes his head. He pulls one of the disks out, sets it on the record player behind him, and drops the needle.

Dave listens closely. From the side, you can see that his eyes are closed. He leans his elbows against the counter and chews on his lip. To you, it sounds perfectly fine. His response, however, indicates that he's not too keen on it. "Okay. I can pay $4.13 for this. Does that sound fair?"

The man, after some consideration, nods. He takes Dave's money, gives him the record, and the three of you leave the store.

About ten minutes later, you reach the railroad tracks. John, having taken orders from all of you, departs to claim a seat at the café and get the coffee orders in. You stay with Dave.

Honestly, you're surprised at how fast he crosses the road. Either you severely underestimated how fast he'd be able to go, or he simply doesn't care about getting hit by a car. From what little you know of him, it might be a bit of both. Whatever the case is, you have to jog to catch up. Once he's reached the café, he stops. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, then places it between his lips. He leans his shoulder against the brick wall and, from what you can tell, proceeds to stare at you. "The hell are you looking at? You can go inside."

You shrug. John is a bit too perky for your liking. You prefer when Dave is there, as he evens out John's overbearing energy. So, you join him. You lean your back against the wall and fold your arms across your chest. "Do you actually like to fucking poison yourself, Strider?"

Dave quirks a brow. He seems to be confused, though he quickly realizes what you're asking. "They're calming. I'll quit them later."

You roll your eyes. "Okay."

"I've got a question for you, then. What do you expect to get from helpin' me?" You feel as if he's eyeing you over, but you really can't tell. He buries his hands in his pockets and exhales a plume of smoke from his nostrils.

You, meanwhile, stare at him in confusion. "I mean, you're my roommate. We might as well try and get along."

"You lookin' to hook up with my sister?" Dave smirks. It's a cocky, blood-boiling expression, and the statement he's accompanying it with doesn't do anything to lessen its sheer stupidity. "She's not interested in you, but I know of some chicks who might be. They dig the blind guy. Or, at least, they dig me."

A poorly suppressed groan of annoyance precedes your reply. "I'm gay, you soggy remnant of yesterday's newspaper. I'm not fucking interested in your sister."

Here, Dave seems to react with shock. He frowns. The lines on his forehead indicate furrowed brows. "Oh. That's weird."

"What's so fucking weird about it?" you ask. Though you're annoyed, you keep your voice down. After what happened the last time you yelled at him, you don't want a repeat. "I'm gay. I like other guys."

"It's just that Bro told me all the fags were shitbags." Dave pauses. You assume he uses the word without realizing its impact, but you hold your tongue until he finishes talking. "You're actually pretty nice, though..."

"Yeah, because whatever your Bro fed you was absolute trash. And don't use that word," you counter.

"Oh." Dave nods. Again, it seems as if he's looking you over. He chews on his lip, releases some more smoke from his nostrils, and adjusts his shades. His cheeks are turning pink, and he redirects his gaze to the ground. "I mean, I'm not... So... I just don't want you gettin' the wrong impression."

You resist the urge to laugh. If there's one thing you've known about Dave since the minute you set eyes on him, it's that he sure as hell isn't the average straight male. You don't say this, though. Instead, you nod. "I'll keep that in mind, Strider."

"Yeah..." Dave plucks his cigarette from his mouth, and tosses it onto the ground. He grinds it into dust with the heel of his ratty red Converse, and nods towards the door. "We should head in. John probably thinks we got hit by the train."


	6. Someday Man

The first time you realize you _might_  have a crush on your roommate is the second Tuesday of your college career. You return to your dorm, and find him mixing music. A small smile graces his face, and he seems to be completely relaxed. His eyes are closed, and his movements are instinctive. Since he uses headphones, you can never be sure what song he's playing with, but he seems to be engrossed in this one. For once, he looks like a human being. He's not a rigid, emotionless robot. The minute he notices you, though, he freezes. He pulls off the headphones and rises to his feet. As per usual, he towers over you. "I've been meaning to go to the store for a while. I asked John if he'd be cool taking me, but he's busy all day. You mind driving?" He punctuates this with a raised brow.

You shrug. Honestly, you'd planned on taking a nap. However, helping out Dave doesn't sound like a terrible alternative. "Yeah, sure."

"Fuckin' awesome. I'll pay you back gas money later. Are you fine with going now?"

You nod, and he follows you out to the campus's largest parking lot. It's little more than a spray-painted tennis court, but it works. Your car is pretty obvious. It's a beaten up old sedan, which you took from your father. He bought a new car, and you got stuck with a sloppy jalopy. You've played Sims, and your car looks _exactly_ like that one. While Dave doesn't seem to care, you do. You're currently trying to save up enough money to at least have it repainted. Having an ugly car is bad enough, but having one the color of literal shit is even worse.

The drive to the store is short. It's only about five miles, though you suppose that's a long walk. You'd also have to cross the highway, which has no more than two poorly spaced crosswalks. Once there, you follow him inside, watch him get a basket, and trail behind him for about ten minutes. A tense silence hangs between the two of you, and he's ultimately the one to break it. "You're not here to stand around and look pretty, y'know."

You pause. It dawns upon you that you came to help Dave, not follow him around as some sort of trophy roommate. Though your cheeks heat up, your complexion assures it doesn't show. "Fuck. Sorry. What are we in this putrid waste of space for?"

Dave pauses. He pulls out his phone, fiddles with it for a few seconds, and nods. "Well, let's see if you're a better helper than John. He's a great friend, but a shitty helper. I need some cheese, first of all. I like the individually wrapped slices. I don't really give a shit what brand it is, as long as it's cheese. John's thrown in bologna before."

You lead him to the dairy section, though you find yourself perplexed by the situation Dave described. "How do you fuck up that much?" you ask, throwing some Kraft singles into the basket.

A snort of laughter escapes Dave, though his expression doesn't change. "I don't know, dude. He's a nice enough guy, but his head's so high in the clouds you couldn't reel it down it you fuckin' tried." Again, he pauses. He pulls his phone out again, and eventually continues, "I need some bread. Any kind, just not whole wheat. Preferably loaf form, since I'm not too keen on handling knives."

"Any reason for that?" you ask, trying to keep the discussion going.

Dave wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, but you don't want to hear it. Hell, I don't want to hear it, either."

"That's fair." You wander to the appropriate section, and toss in a loaf of Italian style bread. "For someone who talks so much about themselves, it's fucking weird that you hate talking about your past."

"That ain't exactly who I am now, so I'm not dealing with it. I'll have to later, but not now."

You consider this a reasonable answer. Dave has stopped walking, and you take a moment to lean on a nearby shelf. "What's up next?"

"Nothing for me, really. I need to pick up some chips, but I figured I'd wait and see what sort you like." Dave looks expectantly in your direction.

Honestly, chips have never been your thing. You prefer your potatoes warm and part of a wholesome meal. Nonetheless, you feel obligated to return his favor. "Plain. I don't fucking know, Strider. Just pick some chips."

Dave nods. As luck would have it, you've stopped in front of the chip display. Taking your advice, he reaches out, grabs a bag of salt and vinegar chips, and throws it in the basket. "So, that's settled."

The two of you head for the checkout, where you find a formidable line of people queuing for literally every possible register. The self-checkout is sparse, though you're certain Dave would prefer not to. Still, you offer it as a solution. "These lines are fucking ridiculous. Self-checkout is open, though."

"I trust a person more than some stupid machine to handle my money," Dave huffs. He plants himself at the back of the shortest line, and refuses to move.

From what you can tell, there are five people in front of you. Of the five, three have carts filled to overflowing with shit. You conclude that you'll be here a while, and you pull out your phone. You play some mindless word games for a solid ten minutes. While it's fun and distracting, you find that you miss Dave's commentary.

And, as if on cue, it seems he's grown bored of the silence, too. He also doesn't seem to be using his phone for much of anything, and you realize he likely doesn't have any sort of useful games on it. "Weird question, but do you know any sign language?"

You shrug. "Not really. I never needed it, so I never learned it. I know the alphabet. My mom taught it to me when I was younger, mostly so I had a backup plan. It's not all that useful." Despite your response, you can see that Dave is interested. He keeps looking at you, and you ultimately end up continuing, "The first person isn't even fucking close to finishing checking all of Trash Mountain from her cart, so I guess I could teach you. I mean... Can you even see well enough to do it?"

Dave frowns. A nervous sigh escapes him. "Ah. Yeah, I forgot about that part. I guess not."

"Okay, then we'll try this. Give me your hand," you say, offering him your flattened right palm.

He hesitates. "I'm not really that interested..." he mutters. You can barely hear him over the commotion in the store, but you assume that's what he said. He seems to say something else, but you're unable to catch it.

"We're going to be stuck here for a while, Strider, you might as fucking well." You shrug, and watch as he places his hand in yours. His grip is loose and light, and his hands are larger than yours. He holds your fist like you hold an orange, and it's a bit disconcerting to see such a vast difference. Nonetheless, you continue. You form a fist with your right hand. The palm faces outwards, and the thumb is pressed against the side of your index finger. "We're going in order, so I'm going to take a wild guess that you know what this is."

Dave nods. He mirrors your movements with his free hand.

The line remains stagnant, but you move to the next letter. Your hand remains in the same orientation, but your fingers straighten. Your thumb presses against your palm. When Dave mimics this, you continue. You shape your fingers and thumb into a 'C' shape, punctuating the demonstration with some commentary. "That one's easy enough." Dave seems to agree, and he copies you perfectly. Now, your hand forms a 'D'. your thumb touches the tip of your curled middle finger, and only your index finger is straight.

The line moves forwards.

You coax Dave ahead, but continue to offer him guidance. It seems another of your first impressions of him was wrong. Dave's got more brains than you thought. At the very least, the inside of his skull isn't an echo chamber. The two of you manage to reach 'R' before it's your turn. And, at that point, you feel an odd sadness when he lets go of your hand. "Do you need any help paying?"

"Nah. I'm fine," Dave says, taking his wallet from his pocket. He pulls out his money, which seems to be grouped by denomination, and runs his thumb along the right side of the bills. Since each denomination is folded differently, he easily locates what he's looking for. He waits until he receives change, and shoves it into his pocket. The rest of the money goes back into his wallet, and he grabs the plastic bags on the register counter.

You head back to the car, and return to campus.

By now, it's nearly 6:00 PM. You're growing hungry, and it seems Dave is, too.

"Do you like grilled cheese?" Dave asks the question as you lock your car door.

It catches you off guard, and you can't help but furrow your brows. "What?"

"Do you like grilled cheese?" he repeats. Perhaps due to the monotonous nature of his voice, or maybe because of his personality, there's no hostility. From time to time, when you ask people to repeat what they've said, they grow agitated. Dave, however, seems far more patient. "I was picking up the cheese to make some. The campus dining options don't have quite enough cheese for me. One slice is for fucking wimps, you feel?"

While you're not entirely sure what he's trying to say, you nod. You follow him to the grill, where someone has left behind a fair amount of coal. He goes to the room, and returns with some foil. Then, you watch him light the grill.

He snaps his fingers, forming a flame, and sticks his hand in. It's not the safest idea, and it's not the most sanitary, but it works. He shakes his hand off afterwards, and spreads the foil out across the grill's surface. He reaches into the plastic bag, pulls out the bread, and drops two slices onto the foil. "How many slices do you usually go for, dude?"

You pause. You'd grown used to the silence, and it takes you a moment to realize you're being spoken to. "One is fine."

Dave tuts. He puts once slice on your sandwich, and heaps three atop his. "Weak, Karkat. You need some more cheese, that's why you're so damned cranky all the time. Cheese is pure gold, straight from the tit of god."

A snort of laughter escapes you. You'd tried to suppress it, but you failed. "The little people in your mind are fucked up, Dave. I'm not sure how they work, but they're all up there screaming bloody murder."

"That's a fair assumption." Dave shrugs. He flips the sandwiches with his bare hands.

You wince. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Perks of fire magic include not being able to get burned," Dave smirks. "Really, it's not that uncommon. A lot of people have magic, they just don't realize it. Some people ain't fond of usin' it."

At this point, you feel as if he's pulling your leg, but you still nod. "Alright."

Dave takes the sandwiches from the grill, and places them on paper plates. He hands one to you, and sits down next to you with his.

The sun is starting to set, and his hair catches the light in an odd way, making it appear pink. When he bites into his sandwich, excess cheese oozes out. The ghost of a nostalgic smile flickers across his face, and you can see the joy in his eyes. He might not betray much with his expression, but his eyes say a lot. Really, he's damned gorgeous. It infuriates you to no end, yet it intrigues you.

"This might just be the first time I've seen you up close," Dave comments. You realize he's staring at you, and it dawns upon you that you've eaten little more than a single bite of your sandwich. He, meanwhile, is halfway through his. "You're not bad in the looks department, Karkat. I'm amazed people ain't banging down our door to date you."

You feel yourself blushing, and you're more than thankful that Dave can't see it. "I'm not sure you're really the best judge of looks, Strider."

"Well, would you be the best judge of music?" he counters, quirking a brow.

You mull this question over. You've managed to make it halfway through your sandwich by the time he's done. Still, he waits for you. He taps his fingers on the table, creating a rhythmic beat, and hums to himself. Your hearing aids have never done well with humming, and the screeching cicadas don't help. Still, you catch snippets. You've never heard the tune before, but it sounds nice. It's slow and melancholy, and you can see how it fits with Dave's personality. For all his outward flamboyancy, you know he's grasping at straws. He's less in touch with himself than he'd ever admit.


	7. Eleanor Rigby [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** Mentions of consensual sex, but no descriptions

On the 12th of September, your second Friday of classes, Dave invites you to come with him to a frat party. It's at the home of the largest frat on campus, and you're really not too excited for it. You've never enjoyed parties, you hate the taste of alcohol, and you think it's little more than a massive waste of time. Nonetheless, you assume it's a way to meet people. It's not exactly your preferred method, but you don't really know that many people on campus. So, you dress in a polo shirt and slacks, and throw on a grey vest. It might be a frat party, but you'll be damned if you meet your future boyfriend while wearing some stupid outfit.

Dave doesn't seem to have the same idea. He wears one of his baseball shirts and tattered jeans.

The frat house isn't far from your dorm, and the walk is simple enough. You arrive with Dave at around 8:30 PM, and you're amazed by the amount of people there. For such a small campus, parties truly seem to bring everyone out. People litter the yard like drunken lawn gnomes, and the wrought iron balcony on the second floor is packed with revelers. Everything reeks of alcohol and weed. The place is entirely too loud, and you quickly find that your hearing aids are damned near useless. You end up turning them off, and resorting to lipreading. It's a far from perfect art, but it seems it'll be the best you can do.

Inside is even louder. The bass from the stereo rattles your bones and pounds against your skull. Dave seems to enjoy it, though. He nods along to the music and keeps his cane closer to himself than usual. The sweeping motions go in smaller arcs, and his strides are shorter. You do your best to keep track of him, but he wanders off ten minutes into the affair.

You, meanwhile, wander aimlessly through the crowd. Despite the number of people, you feel alone. No one here is familiar, and everyone seems to already have a group.

Slowly, you drift from the main crowd. You end up sitting in the corner of the living room, watching people dance and get mind-blowingly drunk, but do little. In fact, you make a conscious effort to keep yourself as close to the wall as possible. Clearly, you're not going to be making any new friends. You should probably head home, but you feel an obligation to make sure Dave doesn't get blackout drunk.

About an hour and a half passes in this manner. The crowd only grows, and the music keeps getting louder. In fact, it's loud enough that you can hear it clearly. It's enough for you to finally realize you should at least go outside, rather than damaging your hearing even more. You elbow your way through the dense throng of party-goers, and breathe a sigh of relief when you finally reach the relative silence of the frat house's backyard. Dull, faint, barely audible music still seeps outside, but it's not enough to bother you. Surely, it's a sign that the people inside aren't too interested in preserving their hearing.

You find a nice, dry spot in the grass. It's clear of piss, beer, and vomit, and it's fairly secluded. You're beginning to wonder if you should send Dave a text when something rams into your thigh. "What the actual fuck? Watch where you're fucking going, you drunken—" your commentary is cut off. A hand comes down on your head. After the fingers have thoroughly explored your hair, there's a hum of realization. When you turn, you find yourself looking up, to an incredibly inebriated Dave.

"Karkat. Been lookin' for you, pal." His shades are askew, revealing his eyes. He sways unsteadily on his feet. His cane is gone, and you realize that what hit you was his shoe. "Oh. Boy. I might have had a teeny bit too much." As if on cue, he vomits. It lands unnervingly close to you. "Aw, fuck. Sorry, dude. I got lost, but these nice gals gave me some shit to drink. Vriska and Terezi, I think. I wouldn't fuckin' know." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and staggers backwards. "You know either of them?"

By now, you're on your feet. "Can't say I do, Strider."

He shrugs. "My cane broke at some point. I have a spare one at the dorm, but you don't mind me following you, do you?"

"I fucking guess not, seeing as I don't have many other options."

After a few tries, Dave grabs onto your forearm. He fixes his glasses, burps, and leans a large portion of his weight against you. When you stumble, he eases off. "You know, I don't think I noticed this before, but you smell nice," he mutters.

You nod slowly. The rest of the journey is silent. You take the elevator to the second floor. Once you're in the dorm, Dave lets go of your arm. To your interest, however, he continues staring at you. His head is tilted to the left and, after a few seconds, he moves a bit closer. "Anyone tell you you're pretty damn attractive, Karkat?"

You shrug. "You did, once. I mean..."

Dave cuts you off. "You've got the face for, like, advertisements. Calvin Klein and all that fancy shit." He stumbles to his desk chair and drops into it. "And you've got a solid voice. Like, you'd be a good sports announcer. Shout those fuckin' plays out like you own the whole goddamned stadium." By now, Dave's voice is starting to trail off. He yawns.

You also feel sleepy. You've already begun to change, and you're just about to get into bed when he speaks again.

"G'night, Karkat," he mutters, seemingly half asleep.

A disgruntled sigh escapes you. "Night, Strider."

* * *

In the morning, you find Dave at his desk. Now that there's some light, you can see that his shirt is on backwards. You assume he fell asleep in his desk chair. A new cane—a sturdy, non-folding one—is set beside him. He's buried himself in a mountain of pillows, and bundled up in an oversized grey hoodie. "Just fuckin' kill me now," he groans.

You, after microwaving some oatmeal for breakfast, can't help but smirk. "Maybe don't go out and get more fucked than Napoleon's army in the winter, then."

"You're so damned loud," Dave mutters. He slouches back in his chair and covers his face with his hands. "Tune it down thirteen notches, dude."

"So, what happened last night?" you ask, sitting on your bed. Honestly, you're curious. He shook you off early on, so you have no clue what happened between then and when he eventually found you. "Obviously, you got fucking smashed."

"Hammered harder than a nail in a floorboard," Dave grunts. He folds his arms atop his desk and buries his face there. "I... uh... may have had some drunk but consensual sex with one of those gals. Terezi. You'd know her pretty fast. She's literally the only other blind person on campus."

"Mhm." You nod. "So, both of you were drunk?"

A blush colors Dave's features. He tugs at his collar. "Nah. Only I was drunk. She was sober, and had rubbers and everything. It wasn't that great in hindsight, but I guess I was drunk enough to like it."

Again, you nod. You eat some of your oatmeal before continuing, "You party like tomorrow's the goddamned apocalypse."

Dave sits up again. He turns the chair around to face you. "I've... never actually been to a party before. Bro didn't do many parties, and I was locked in my room for the ones he did do. Uh... Shit." He massages his temples and lets forth a huff of discomfort. "I had one birthday party that I can remember, but you can only get so fucked up when you're five."

You frown, but you refrain from commenting. Instead, you push the conversation in a different direction. "You need anything?"

"Death," Dave succinctly supplies. "Sorry for last night."

"I didn't have anything else going on, anyhow. I have no fucking life," you shrug. Your answer is the truth. Unlike (presumably) most college kids, your Friday night was completely clear. And, if you're being honest, having Dave hanging off of you like wet clothes on a laundry line wasn't exactly the worst thing ever. Even reeking of alcohol and weed, he was still pretty damned cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> [Here's a link to the image post!](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/165624466659/yet-another-homestuck-inspired-piece-this-is-just)  
>  **


	8. Mack the Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's an old song, and you can **[check it out here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEllHMWkXEU)**!

On Monday, September 15th, you realize you've got a crush on Dave Strider. And it's not some sort of dinky, run-of-the-mill crush. No, this is straight up pining. You're drowning in your misguided affections, and the water is rapidly rising above your head. You could try and grasp for straws, but that would only hasten your impending demise at the hands of your stupidly attractive roommate.

The realization comes at 6:00 PM. Your classes are finished, and you have some free time. Dave isn't in the room, and you decide to check out the campus radio station. You need some new music to listen to, and you figure you could find some while supporting student efforts. It's an online station, and it's fairly easy to access. You pull it up, plug in your speakers, and dig a good book out of your stash. When you tune in, they seem to be broadcasting a variety of old-timey music. _Beyond the Sea_ , by Bobby Darin, is the current song. You enjoy it, but it's not exactly new to you. Nonetheless, you have no reason to complain.

The song fades out, and a voice speaks up. The announcer sounds like a male, and has an obvious lisp. "And that's all from Sollux for today. I'll hand it over to our newest member of the radio crew, Dave Strider. He's a freshman from right here in Skaia, and he's here to talk to you about..." Sollux lowers his voice. "What the fuck does that say? Your handwriting sucks." The response is a hushed whisper, and Sollux quickly returns to full volume. "Nothing! Absolutely fucking nothing! He's here to tell you all about his boring, stupid life." A laugh track follows this, and, judging by the sound of the closing door, Sollux leaves.

Then, Dave takes over. Naturally, you find yourself concentrating on his voice. The pitch is neither too high nor too low, and it has a soft gravelly quality to it. You assume the latter is due to his smoking. His southern drawl somehow adds to the charm, and, if not for the swearing, he'd sound like the perfect southern gentleman. "Hey there, gals, guys, and pals. Name's Dave Strider. You've probably seen me around campus. I've been told it's 'bout as hard to miss me as it is to miss shootin' the side of the Great Wall of China from point-blank." When it's his voice alone, and perhaps because he's speaking for an audience, he has more emotional subtleties. The end of his commentary is punctuated by a brief, low rumble of a chuckle. "I've been hired by the... ah... The student diversity council to talk to folks 'bout shit."

There's a quiet rustling, as if Dave is moving around. Knowing him, you assume that's what's happening. He's fidgeting with something, at least. "So, yeah, here I am. I'm originally from Houston, Texas. Popped right out of the hard desert soil with two fucked up eyes and vision low enough to be quickly declared legally blind. For various reasons, it's gone down over the years. It's holdin' steady around 20/200. So, if one of you random listener folk was 200 feet from something, that's what I'd see of it at twenty feet away. I've been told I have the Monday 6:00-7:00 PM slot, so I'll just log onto the chat and see what's up."

The sounds of clacking keys on a keyboard fills a brief silence, after which Dave offers another of those tantalizing chuckles. "Yeah. I figured that'd get everyone's attention. I've got my headphones on right now, and I've mixed the channels a bit. Left ear is the broadcast, right ear is the screen reader. So, dicksdicksdicks, your username was just blasted directly into my ear. Congratulations." You can imagine the smug look on his face: the way the edges of his lips just barely pull upwards, and how he quirks his brow.

He hums, though you can't really grasp the depth of it. Your hearing aids seem to despise humming, and you're rarely given an accurate reflection of what's really happening. You can tell, however, that he's trying to kill some time as he continues, saying, "I can see big, general shapes. Like, at a crosswalk, I can tell if it's a red light or a white light. I've been told it's a little hand for stop, and a walking man for go. I don't know if that's true, but I'll assume it is. If I get really, really close, I can see some detail. Bright days are the fuckin' worst."

After a few seconds more of humming, Dave lets forth a surprised whistle. "That's a doozy, now, ain't it? Yeah, I like movies. It's real hard for me to enjoy them, though, because it's a pain in my goddamned ass to find a place with audio descriptions. They're basically short, descriptive tracks, and they play during pauses in dialogue. It's not anything like the bullshit you see on TV, where the announcer is spoutin' off shitty descriptions at the speed of light between educational programming babble. For the most part, I'm an audio guy. I like music. I hear good music, and that shit's on my phone faster than you can fuckin' blink. Soundtracks are my deal.

"Now, seeing as the questions are really rollin' in like tumbleweeds in an old Western, I'll start picking the best ones. And, by that, I mean I'll choose the ones that aren't insults. Okay, so..." There's a brief break. Dave fades in some elevator music and, after a few minutes, returns.

"I'm gettin' paid by the student diversity council for this, so I'm gonna do my damnedest to make sure this is educational, informational, and entertainin'." A huff of laughter follows this. "First question is whether or not people should offer to help. Now, I ain't everyone, so don't go running around telling every blind person you meet that I said this. I, personally, like doing things myself. I ain't too fond of when people just grab me by the arm and pull me across the street. I won't give you your fuckin' scout badge, and I don't count for helping the elderly.

"Secondly, someone's wondering if I have heightened senses. The truthful answer here is that, no, I am _not_ Daredevil. I'm gonna repeat this again, just so we're all crystal clear and peachy about it. I _am not_ Daredevil. I use my other senses more than sight, obviously, so those are what I'm used to. I mean, if you ask me, everyone who can see has this weird, freakish superpower of visual clarity." Another laugh. While you can easily picture Dave's other reactions, you can't place this one. You've never really seen him laugh before, and, for some reason, this fact saddens you. Somehow, you feel as if it would be lovely to witness.

As these thoughts flow through your mind, Dave continues. "Third question: What should we do if we see you. Now, that's a weird one. I'd like to be greeted, like, 'Hey, Dave, you're that guy from the campus radio!' Most people probably won't, though. I think what we're really looking at is what you _shouldn't_ do, and one of those things is to not form a twelve mile circle of shame around me. I'm not going to hit you with my fuckin' cane. If anything, it's better I know you're there." Dave punctuates this with a sigh. For some reason, the sound sends a chill down your spine.

"Okay, now, let me explain a few things. I'm _legally_ blind. I can see, just really fuckin' badly. I'm not sobbing in a corner, floating in an endless expanse of darkness like some goddamned Shinji Ikari." Again, he sighs. You can envision him, with his head in his hands.

"Four... Nah, I don't use a guide dog. I'm not that great with pets, and they're expensive as fuck. A cane does the same job, and you usually don't need to feed it. Sometimes, you can provide it with some table scraps, but be sure to check that there's no artificial sweetener." There's a brief pause. "Okay, that's honestly about all the time we have today. Check back later, and I might mix some beats for you all. Sound solid? Of fuckin' course it does. Peace out, folks." The broadcast ends, and some vapid pop music fades in. You turn off the radio channel, and sit back in your chair.

When you started, you'd sworn to yourself you weren't getting involved in any sort of drama. And, yet, here you are. Falling for your roommate might just be the pinnacle of college drama, and here you fucking are. You've climbed the Everest of bullshit, and you're now staring over the precipice, down a straight drop into fuck-knows-where.

* * *

When Dave returns, you say nothing about the broadcast. You offer him a terse greeting, and watch him warily. For the first time, you notice how light he is on his feet. There's a formality to his movements. You can only assume it's learned, but it's graceful. As you look on, he sits down. He tugs at the rounded end of his cane, pulling free the red bottom, and unhooks it from what appears to be a length of wire or reinforced rope. He pulls another of the tips from his desk drawer, hooks it on, and presses it back into place. Then, he throws the old one out.

"Any reason for that, or are you just in the mood for a change?" you ask, curious.

Dave shrugs. "Old one broke on the way back. Not the end of the world, but mildly annoying."

You nod.

Dave, meanwhile, sets aside his cane. He stretches his arms above his head, and lets forth a loud yawn. "Look, I'm tired as hell. You mind if I crash?"

"It's your room, too, Strider," you point out.

The way Dave nods makes it seem as if you just told him the secret of immortality. He changes quickly, and clambers up to the top bunk.

And you, having had far more drama today than you could ever want in a lifetime, decide to follow suit. You pull off your shirt, put it into your laundry bag, and slide beneath the covers of your own bed. After removing your hearing aids, you wrap yourself in a cocoon of polyester fiber-filled cotton bedclothes, and squeeze your eyes shut. For some reason, you find yourself imagining what it would be like to feel Dave's lips against yours. You wonder what it would be like to share a bed with him, and feel his warmth against your body. All of these thoughts only bolster your mounting stress.

Trying to fight the thoughts is futile, and you ultimately end up downing a sleeping pill. You return to bed, and eventually fall asleep.


	9. Touch the Sky [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>  [As usual, here's the song link!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d7BrZf2ZVwI)   
> 

Tuesday, September 16th, the college holds what they call an Involvement Festival. From the email you received, it's an event dedicated to the available on-campus clubs and organizations. It'll be from 5:00-7:00 PM. It's located at the campus's central fountain, around which a large, octagonal viewing area branches off into eight paths. Seeing as you're interested in widening your social sphere, you plan on attending. Dave has also expressed interest in going, and John is coming to help Dave. (Honestly, you're not sure why John didn't room with him.)

The day has been oppressively, obscenely hot. The air is humid, and you feel as if you'll never again be free of sweat. Thankfully, by the time the Involvement Festival rolls around, the temperature has dropped. It's still uncomfortably humid, but it's a bit cooler out. John and Dave trail behind you as you make your way to the event, which also promises the added bonus of a barbecue. You all arrive around 5:15.

The edges of the walkways, and both the inner and outer portions of the fountain area are all lined with tables. Each has banners attached, which proclaim the table's intent and affiliation. There are some commercial tables, a table churning out custom street signs, and a mind-boggling amount of organizations. Some clubs boast odd gimmicks. For instance, you can see that the equestrian club is showing off a mini pony.

Coming from the northeastern pathway, the first booth you happen upon seems to be advertising a local bank. A ruddy-faced, rotund man greets you. "Greetings! You kids here for the Involvement Fair?" A wide, contrived smile spreads across his face. From his pocket, he pulls three cheap, plastic pens. "Here, have some pens. You can use them to sign up for clubs. Show one of these to an associate at one of our branches, and you can open a free student account."

Though you're tempted to turn down the offer, you figure a free pen is a goddamned free pen. You take it, force a courteous smile, and nod. Then, you wait for John and Dave to catch up.

"You already have an account with Skaia, don't you?" John asks, taking one of the three pens.

Dave nods. Without acknowledging the man behind the table, he moves onwards.

"You could have at least taken the fucking pen, you rude chucklefuck," you mutter.

Dave pauses. Though his face doesn't show it, you feel as if he's startled. "Someone was offering a free pen? Shit. John, you're supposed to tell me these things." He punctuates his comment with a playful shove.

John, after stumbling back a few steps, laughs. "I thought you heard him!"

"Obviously not," you grumble. You feel as if this is going to be a much longer and far more tedious affair than you'd bargained for. Nonetheless, you've already started it, so you might as well finish it. You move ahead. Now, there are two tables to consider. They're both directly across from one another, and staffed by enthusiastic students. The one to your left advertises the Zoologists of the Future, and the one on the right is for the Vegan Organization. As neither of these interest you, you forge onwards. The next two tables also fail to impress you.

John and Dave follow suit. Clearly, neither seem enthusiastic about any of the booths you're passing.

None of the organizations pique any interests, and you quickly reach the central fountain plaza. There, immediately to your right, is the first table to interest you. A rainbow flag is draped over it, and two lively hosts immediately greet you.

"Hey! The name's Jade Harley!" The speaker is a tall woman, who stands about two or three inches above you. Her figure is what most would consider average, and her skin is on the lighter end of medium brown. After she's done speaking, she flashes you a bucktoothed, Egbert-esque grin.

Next, there's another woman. Her skin is lightly tanned, and her blond hair is styled in an endearing retro fashion. "And I'm Roxy! We're the president and vice-president of the campus Q&A Club!" She chuckles, winks at you, and whispers, "Queers and Allies Club, by the way."

You nod. Your pen is already out, and you're signing your name by the time Dave comes around.

"Q&A Club," John announces. "I'm guessing that the rainbow flag means it's gay club? Looks neat. Karkat is signing up."

"Well, Damn, Egbert, nothing goes over your head. You're a verified fuckin' Titan, smacking down all that dares fly over the radar." Dave brushes past John and approaches. He acts as if he's looking at the table, but his white cane seems to negate any purpose such an action would have. "So... John's right, right? Gay club? I've got to be gay to join?"

"Anyone can join!" Jade answers with a contagious enthusiasm. she adjusts her circular glasses, and brushes some of her long black hair from her face. "Any orientation or gender identity is welcome. And you can join if you just want to hang out with some cool people, too. Allies are always allowed to come and learn more!"

Dave hums thoughtfully. He looks towards you, then does that odd head tilt of his. "John said you're signing up?"

"Why the fuck would it matter to you, Dave I'm-So-Very-Hetero-fucking-sexual Strider?" You fold your arms across your chest.

Unfazed by your commentary, Dave shrugs. He looks back to the table, and toys with the black wrist strap at the end of his cane. "Sure, why the fuck not? You all wouldn't mind signing me up, would you? I can't see well enough to do anything besides scribble my name in huge letters across an entire sheet of paper."

"Sure thing, cutie," Roxy interjects. For some reason, a small bit of jealous rises in response to the commentary. "What's your name and email?" At this point, she pulls the signup sheet towards herself and clicks a pen.

"Dave Strider. The school email's DavidStrider," he answers.

Roxy writes this down.

You, John, and Dave depart to seek out other clubs. Nonetheless, you cant help but ask Dave about the decision. "What the hell was that? I mean, I sound pissed, but I'm not. I always sound like someone's grievously wronged me, to be honest. But, that's not the fucking point. My point was what the hell made you decide to sign up for the club?"

Dave shrugs. "The girls were cute," he answers. "I mean, their voices were nice. They seemed like nice people."

In response, you offer a slow nod. You don't believe him at all, but you keep your doubts to yourself. "Have you ever actually gone out with anyone, or at least had a relationship vaguely akin to what could be classified as going steady?"

An innocent whistle. "No, I ain't one for a long term relationship. I'm a here-then-gone type of thing. The Strider train rides solo, and passes through the night like the dopest ghost in all of history." Dave's words are confident, but you feel as if that's a hollow reassurance. He seems to be speaking to himself as much as he's addressing you. "Look, whatever the shit people _think_ relationships are good for, they're not. I'm just as happy as a one man band as I'd be in the middle of the most dubious den of inequity."

The commentary causes you to pause. Honestly, you're not even sure if he knows what he's saying any more. If he does know what's coming from his mouth, then he's already ahead of you. "So, you've never dated anyone?"

"Nope." As it seems that Dave is eager to end this discussion, you stop.

By now, you've passed many, many more tables. None of them have interested you. Likewise, neither John nor Dave have seen anything. However, you eventually find another table of interest. Or, at least, Dave does.

"Tabletop Club?" John announces. He doesn't wait for Dave to answer to sign himself up.

The table's sole representative is a short, tan-faced man with wary brown eyes and a pair of mismatched shades on. One lens is blue, and the other is red. When he speaks, you immediately recognize his voice. The lisp gives it away. "Hey, blondie, you want to sign up, too?"

Dave pauses. A smirk flashes across his face. "Sure. Sign me up. Name's Dave Strider."

Sollux nods. He scribbles down the name on the sheet of paper, and turns his attentions to you. "What about you? You feel like joining the coolest club on campus?"

You shrug. Honestly, you've never played any tabletop games before. You have, however, always had an interest in learning how. At the very least, it will help you refine your writing skills. With little to lose, you sign your own name on the sheet. "You're Sollux, right? You were on the radio last night." After saying this, you freeze.

Behind you, Dave offers a dry snicker.

Sollux, meanwhile, shrugs. "Not that big of a deal. Yeah, that's me. Now, keep the traffic rolling."

The three of you depart, and Dave is quick to line himself up beside you. "So, you listened to the show last night?"

"I guess," you grumble. "You were fine."

"Nice to know I'm building up my throng of adoring fans," Dave hums. "Yeah, radio personality is another of my possible career choices. Once you know where all the controls are, it ain't that hard of a job. At least, I don't think it is." In the most nauseatingly haughty manner possible, he runs his free hand through his hair. The display reminds you of animals in nature channel documentaries, particularly males showing displays of territorial power. He's marking his territory, though you're not sure why. If he isn't interested in you, why bother putting on such a show?

A silence falls between the two of you. After a few minutes, he falls back even further, until he's by John's side. The two of them chat about things, though you're not really interested in listening in on their conversation. Your main focus is on the tables, which you've seen about half of, and on finding new social circles.

Eventually, it becomes apparent that the rest of the clubs aren't of much value. You break away from the group, and grab yourself some dinner. The buffet table setup offers you a tantalizing dinner of grilled chicken breast, chips, and lemonade. You pile this onto your plate, and find a shady spot beneath a tree. Sitting here, you watch the commotion. People pass, often in chattering groups of three or four. A gentle wind sometimes picks up stray flyers and napkins, and tosses them about. People chase after them, often giving up and letting them fly away. And, as you watch, the crowd begins to thin.

As the time nears 7:00 PM, the club representatives begin to pack up.

You begin to wonder where Dave and John have gone, but the question is swiftly answered.

"Well, Karkat isn't dead," John announces from behind.

Dave replies with a sigh of exasperation. "Well, damn, I was going to use his bed as a kickin' pillow fort." He tuts dramatically, then squats beside you. "You find any other interesting clubs?"

"Not fucking really," you answer.

"Yeah, we didn't either. Food was good, though." In the light from the early stages of the sunset, dramatic shadows fall across Dave's face. It looks like a frame from some overwrought drama. "So, you ready to go back to the dorm?"

"Why not?" you answer, rising to your feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Here's a link to the art post!** ](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/165628343444/even-more-homestuck-fanart-check-out-my-etsy-and)


	10. Portrait of Eduard Kosmak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapters from Dave's viewpoint will be named after paintings, since all of Karkat's are named after songs. This one's by Egon Schiele, and you can **[look at it here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Expressionism#/media/File:Egon_Schiele_061.jpg)**.

**Your name is Dave Strider,** and you're quite possibly the finest thing since sliced bread soaked through with sweet, succulent, melted butter. You might as well be the ninth verified wonder of the word, because your coolness levels are off the fucking charts. Who can resist you, and your southern charm and suave speeches? No one, that's who! More to the point, however, today happens to be Friday, September 18 th. Your classes are finished, and you're now enjoying all the rewards of the weekend. You've planned to _not_ pull a repeat of last weekend, and you have budgeted time to specifically _not_ have sex with Terezi Pyrope.

In fact, you're currently sitting in on the first Tabletop Club meeting.

When you were younger, a mere inexperienced tumbleweed of a preteen, John introduced you to roleplaying games. The two of you would spend hours online, rolling characters and engaging in epic fantasy battles. It was a dorky, stupid habit, and it's one your father never approved of. In fact, one of the reasons your communication with John was ultimately cut off happened to be tabletop games. That, however, is neither here nor there.

What's here is, awkwardly enough, the familiar scent of Terezi Pyrope. She smells of lavender perfume and cherry air freshener, and the strength of the scent hints at one of two things. The first option is that she has absolutely slathered herself with both, and the second is that she's sitting right next to you. You can't tell which of these is true. You know, however, that Karkat is to your right. He's arguing with John about something, though you don't really care to find out what that is.

"'Sup, losers, club's in session now." A female voice overpowers the idle chatter. You recognize it from the party, but you can't recall the name. Not that you need to. "My name's Vriska Serket, and I'm the president of this society of nerds. So, let's get this shit started. Sollux, start up the powerpoint."

Sollux grumbles something under his breath.

Since every one else is presumably doing it, you turn towards the front of the room.

"So, I'm seeing some new losers sitting in here. I guess we might as well start by getting everyone's names out. Sollux, you start." A haughty snicker punctuates this.

Sollux, meanwhile, breathes a long, exasperated sigh. You're sure there's history to that, but you don't know what it is. Perhaps, if you could see the expressions, you could extrapolate some form of a hypothesis. "Fuck you, Serket. I'm Sollux. I'm the _original_ president of this club, before someone rigged the fucking election. I'm a junior..."

"That's enough out of you. You, you're next." Vriska's statements overlap Sollux's introduction, and it seems he just allows this.

"I'm Terezi," says the person to your left. "And I knocked up the cutie next to me. Next?"

Heat rises to your cheeks. You feel as if you should sprint out of the room, but you're certain that's a bad idea. Instead, you tug at your collar. The fabric is soft, though the edges are ragged. The stray strings tickle your finger. "I'm Dave Strider. I'm a freshman."

Karkat answers next. His voice is on the higher end of the vocal range, and there's a raspy quality to it. Some might find it annoying, but you think it's endearing. He's always so expressive, like John, and it's something you're still getting used to. "Karkat Vantas. I have no fucking clue why I'm here, but I'm a freshman."

"John Egbert, freshman." As per usual, his voice is clear and filled with enthusiasm.

"And I'm your amazing president. Just saying it again to make sure we all know. Awesome. That's the whole gang of nerdy freaks. Everyone have a character?" Vriska asks.

You note that Sollux rarely speaks. You wonder if there's a reason he seems to have reinvested himself in radio broadcasting.

"I don't," Karkat huffs.

Vriska laughs, as does Terezi. The latter's laugh is more of a cackle, and it startles you.

"You, Strider! You look like you know about this. Help this loser roll up a fantasy fucker," Vriska commands. "Everyone else, pick a pre-rolled character to use for next meeting."

You consider objecting to her bluntness, but you figure it's a lost cause. So, instead, you turn to Karkat. You reach into your bag and pull out a binder. Long ago, John had sent you character sheets, and you printed some out before coming. After all, you figured _someone_ would need them. And, as it turns out, you were right. You thumb through the pages, which you added large colored dots to. When you reach green, you pull one out. The smooth table enables you to slide the page to Karkat, who you assume to be looking about as enthusiastic as he sounded a few moments prior. "So, let's start with the simple part. What's your name going to be?"

Karkat groans. His fingers tap against the faux wood of the table, and the action creates a series of low thuds. A guttural growl precedes his answer. "Look, I don't fucking know. I wasn't expecting to be immediately instructed to create an old-school Skyrim character by some bitch with the personality of a drill sergeant."

You can feel the frustration radiating from your roommate. So, after a moment of thought, you try a different approach. "Well, let's build this fucker from the ground up. What're you going to be? A human? A furry? You can be a tree, if your heart so desires. Elf?"

"Elf, I guess."

"Awesome. I don't trust myself to write this in the right place, but you go ahead." A pencil scratches against the page. From the sounds, you assume he has angular handwriting. Rather than the flowing, continuous sound of Rose's writing, his creates a series of hard scrapes. "Why are you in this club if you've never played? You don't sound like you're drooling and begging to learn how to, either."

"Well, you joined, so I figured I might..." Karkat's voice trails off. A quiet sigh escapes him. "No, never mind. I just felt like it, I guess. Do I need to justify every action I take? Must I provide a double-spaced fifty page essay with footnotes whenever I do something, Fuckfessor?"

For some reason, you find his rants amusing. You can't risk showing this, though. Your father always told you to keep an even head. "Yeah, dude. It's due tomorrow. Start typing up that fucker now."

The chair next to you rolls back, and footsteps recede from the spot. The tapping of a cane also fades into the distance, and you assume that Terezi has left. As far as you know, Vriska has also left. She doesn't seem to be at the front of the room anymore, at least. Nonetheless, you continue. "So, what about class?"

"Paladin," Karkat answers without hesitation. "If I'm doing anything here, I'm crusading against the other shit-brained jackasses in this club. I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to solve whatever godawful conundrum Queen Shitbitch comes up with. Whether I do this through brute fucking force or the use of higher powers isn't an issue. Welcome to hell, kids, we're jumping right into the immersion volcano. Feet first yields optimal results."

Despite your best efforts a snicker of laughter escapes you. "Well, damn, for someone who doesn't have any idea what to name his character, you sure have a personality hammered out. You've shaped that persona like a whittler fine-tunes his many wooden lawn gnomes, and I can't really say I ain't impressed."

"Your use of obtuse and irrelevant imagery never ceases to amaze me, Strider," Karkat grumbles.

You flash an emotionless smirk. You keep your body language as loose and neutral as possible, and you like to think that this makes you seem aloof and distant. That's what your father always told you to do. "I'm a master of rhymes and an whole lot of imagery crimes. Catch me weaving kick-ass comparisons, that shit ain't embarassin'."

"You're an enigma." Karkat's commentary is succinct, though his voice carries a whole lot of conviction. "Now that that's out of the fucking way, can we just move on to whatever the hell any of this means? What in the name of god are all these ornately shaped stat boxes, and why can't they just use goddamned rectangles like normal people?"

"Rectangles are for squares," you say, spinning your cane around on its tip. "So, there's a lot of shit after this, and John can tell you about it. I can't be bothered to remember all the numbers."

"John is fucking gone. He left with pretty much everyone else. The only people left are me, you, and Sollux Captor, introvert extraordinaire." Karkat pauses, and you feel as if he's looking at you expectantly.

"Well, fuck, we might as well leave, too." You rise to your feet and wait until you hear Karkat's footsteps a bit ahead of you. His rough shape is also visible, and his outfit makes him appear as little more than a grey blob. The carpeting of the room generates an odd sensation in the handle of your cane, and you can tell it's one of those rough, old-fashioned carpets. It's made for durability over comfort, that much is obvious. The texture creates a strange, soft rumbling feeling. You could easily compare it to a mild version of video game controller feedback. Eventually, this fades to the smooth glide of a tiled floor. A threshold separates this from the bumpy brick path, which you'll be following all the way to your dorm.

"How do you play, anyhow? I mean, not to sound like an insensitive jackass, but you can't exactly see the dice. And, from what I fucking understand, the dice are at least half the game." Karkat's voice comes from nearby, and turning to its source reveals that he's beside you. His pace matches yours perfectly, though it takes him two steps to equal one of yours.

You revel in the opportunity to answer his inquiry. You produce a small felt bag from your pocket, though you don't allow him to touch or hold it. After all, it contains your most prized possessions. "John sent me some cool dice. He used his fancy-ass school's 3D printer, and made a braille set. Now, I never exactly learned how to understand that shit, but I know numbers. You roll it like regular dice, and poke at the top. I like using the real things more than generators. There's only so much computer voice a dude can handle before he wants to try and shoot himself in the foot, y'know."

Karkat responds with a thoughtful hum. He seems to nod. "So, John isn't just a bucktoothed goofball?"

"Nah, John's a really good guy. He's my best friend for a reason." Your commentary is as truthful and upfront as you ever think you'll get. You've known few people outside of Bro and John, and that might color your opinions of both. Nonetheless, you hold John in high regards. "He's like the Scully to my Mulder, I guess. But... not in a gay way."

A huff of annoyance comes from Karkat. "You keep fucking saying that, Strider. Just keep regurgitating that line like you've got one hell of a case of botulism."

You simply shrug. You have no real reply to his commentary. After all, you are most certainly not gay. You're the straightest arrow in the quiver. If everyone was a line, you'd have a slope of zero. You're the straightest shot from the world's most accurate gun. Your father told you so, and you're going to damn well believe him. You can't trust anything else the bastard's ever said, but you can at least trust that. Who knows you better than your dad? No one except for John, and he's never commented on your sexuality.


	11. While My Guitar Gently Weeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>  [Use this version.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TTQU7KT92U)   
>    
> 

**Your name is Karkat Vantas** , and, on this particularly fair, breezy September 20th, you decide to talk a walk around campus. People seem to have turned up outside in droves, flocking to sunny spots like moths. They lay in the grass, laughing and chatting and doing homework. On frat row, most of the guys are playing with water guns. They yell stupid, childish insults at one another, goading each other into even more intense action. Some people seem busy cleaning their cars, likely trying to rid them of the pollen blankets which have formed.

And, as you return from this walk, you notice Dave. He's sitting in the grass, beneath one of the large trees by the fountain plaza, with a guitar. It's a beaten up acoustic model, which features a faded red pick guard. His fingers move with deft precision, though you don't know what song he's playing. It's a melancholy tune, and it lacks any traces of optimism. Nevertheless, the look on his look is about as serene as you've seen from him. In fact, the edges of his lips are even curled slightly upwards. The case is at his feet, and it seems some people have mistaken him for a busker. When you get closer, his haul is less substantial than you thought. A bottle cap and roughly two dollars, all of it in change, rest against the torn black felt bottom.

"Since when do you play guitar? I didn't even know you had one," you ask.

Dave shrugs. He doesn't look at you. "I've played for a while, dude. If I'm going to be a music legend, I've gotta be multi-fuckin'-faceted."

"That's a huge word for you, Strider. You feeling okay? Should I go and fetch a dustpan for when your tiny head inevitably explodes with tumultuous fanfare, having overexerted itself with such a fucking extensive vocabulary?" You can't help but smirk. The insult isn't really to be mean, it's simply a playful prod. "Really, though, you've had a guitar this whole time? And it's not electric? I would have pegged you for the bastard-fucker shitbag, who plays his electric instrument at full blast."

This elicits a snicker of laughter from Dave, though his expression doesn't change. "Solid assumption, but they're way too expensive for me. Nah, I'm fine with this dusty old piece of shit." His fingers arch gracefully as he plays a lively arpeggio. This seems to announce a change in song, as the downbeat melody slides into an upbeat waltz. By now, you're not entirely convinced that these are real songs. He could just be making these up. Whether or not he is picking his own impromptu tunes, however, remains a question for another time. "You don't play any instruments, do you?"

"Nope," you shrug. Unlike most of your friends, you were never too interested in becoming the next rock star. You were content reading your books, writing your stories, and sometimes going on long-winded rants. "How long have you known how to play?"

"Before the barbell incident," Dave announces. He pauses, and the lull in conversation is mirrored by a brief break in the music. When he starts speaking, the music resumes. "So, I'm guessin' about thirteen years? I started when I was five and mostly taught myself. Bro would never shell out cash for a real lesson."

You nod. This information is quickly filed into the growing collection of the 'Bro is a shitbag' section of your memory. "You're pretty decent at it, I hate to admit."

"Thanks. Not sure how much merit that warrants coming from a foul-mouthed hothead like you, but I appreciate it." A cocky grin flashes across his face. "Really, though, you can hear the music fine?"

"I guess so?" This is question you've never really considered. You're aware that the way you experience music is different from how someone such as John would. It's definitely a far cry from how Dave understands it. Then again, you've always seen art as subjective. Everyone understands it differently, and that's perfectly fine with you. "I could turn that bus right the fuck around and aim its shining chrome grill at you, Strider. In fact, for no reason beyond my own amusement, I think I will! How would you enjoy art?"

"Sculpture is really cool, and anything with sound is _the_ shit." Dave shrugs. He slides his middle finger down the length of the guitar's neck, producing an almost electronic screech. It reminds you of the sort of sounds you'd hear from a DJ. He shifts again, and opts on a more casual, but emotionally neutral tune. There's a background video game soundtrack quality to it. The music is there, but it's not. "You ask a whole lot of questions. You're like a little shit-faced five year old. You've got those sticky, melted-sugar-covered-hands grabbing onto everything at the most inconvenient times and you're just spouting out the deepest and stupidest crap you can think of."

An indignant huff precedes your reply. "Look, Strider, I don't have to fucking talk to you. I can shut my mouth right now and walk away."

"Oh?" Dave's brows rise, until they're visible above the rims of his shades, and another of his hollow snickers accompanies the action. "Really? Go ahead."

You try to force yourself to do just that. You want to turn and walk away, but something seems to keep you in place. It's as if there's a weight around your ankles, and it binds you to this mindless chatter. Still, you try to maintain your standing. "Well, _you_ could always walk away."

"I'm perfectly fine. And you're the one standing."

"FUCK!" The words escape your mouth with far more force than you anticipated. It draws a few stares, though everyone quickly loses interest. You, meanwhile, sit down across from the now obviously smirking blond. "Fine! You win! I have no goddamned clue what sort of pointless award you might receive for such a staggering achievement of being a goddamned smartass, but I'm assured it's the most useless piece of shit to ever exist on this planet. Does this make you happy? Do you derive some sort of idiotic pleasure from this affair?"

For the first time, you see Dave laugh. It's a genuine, captivating sound. To your intrigue, it also reveals what you assume to be a little-known fact: Dave Strider has not just one, but two goddamned dimples. Your cheeks burn, and you feel as if your heart rate has surpassed anything a living human should have. "Jesus, dude, you just wind yourself up like a fucking Happy Meal toy, don't you? Is there a key in your back? If I turn it a few times, will you get even more outrageous? Damn, I don't think that's even possible." After a few seconds, the laugh stops. His smile fades, and you're left wanting more.

You, however, don't mention this to him. Instead, you keep up your tough act; you'll never let Dave Strider know you're blushing because of him. "Fuck you, you self-inflated pustule of society."

"Oh! Now I'm a pustule. Creative." Dave shrugs.

You sigh. By now, you figure it's time to change the topic. You fish around in your head for something to discuss, something that _isn't_ the fact that you've fallen for your roommate. After a few minutes of what you can only assume to be the most unimpressive silence, you finally speak up. "Any other secret music skills you're hiding?"

"I've been told I have a pretty solid singing voice. I don't really like it, though." Somehow, you can see this. There's something about the slight husky quality of his voice that seems as if it would lend itself to vocal performance. "Other than that, not really. I can play bass. Don't own one, though, since I don't have the money for it. I prefer electric bass, so..." Dave trails off. "What about you?"

As if it will somehow let the information sink in even more, you nod. (This does nothing to enhance your comprehension.) "I draw some, I guess. I'm not big on that sort of stuff. I mean... When I was younger, I wanted to be a painter."

"Not sure if I'm a good judge of that," says Dave. "Acrylic paintings are cool, though. Especially when people lay that shit on thick, and you get those bumpy textures." He, too, seems to be in the mood for pointless nodding.

"What's your favorite song?" you ask, now looking away. You can't stand looking at him any longer. He's too damned pretty, and you know he's out of your league. That's how damned fucked you are: you're out of the blind man's league. He probably hates your voice. He probably thinks it's like a cheese grater to the brain.

For perhaps the umpteenth time today, Dave shrugs. He begins playing something on his guitar. It's yet another tune you've never heard, but you assume it's his favorite song. It's playful and boisterous, and it would probably be the perfect chiptune. He mutters the lyrics to himself, apparently unwilling to sing, and you have trouble keeping track. You choose to focus on the music, but you catch some words.

 _"Dust in the shadows, smoke in your eyes._  
_Heart full of anger, head full of lies._ "

You've always heard that the things people like say a lot about who they are. If that's true, and you believe it is, then it makes you wonder what it says about Dave.

 _"No place to run to, no use pretending._  
_Life in this moment, not in its ending."_

When the song is over, you feel as if he eyes you over. "'Come With Me', by Bowman. Real good shit."

"I guess so." You like music, but you see it as little more than a backing track for your life. It's not something you actively listen to without any accompanying activity. Then again, if Dave is so intrigued by it, perhaps you might just try.

As you think of this, Dave turns the tables. "What about you? If you don't have a favorite song, I get it. That's cooler than the other side of the pillow, but you'll have to tell me your favorite something else, then. And don't go diving into the gutter of perversion, keep it fuckin' clean."

You pause. As music isn't your thing, you're forced to pursue option two. You search through your memories, trying to find your favorite media. Movie? Book? Play? You've always been a huge fan of novels, but that might be a bit highbrow. Dave will certainly take great joy in dissecting your literary tastes, so you decide to spite him. "I'm a big fan of the animated _Metropolis_." You can't help but smirk. Clearly, you've outsmarted him. He'd never consume such media.

And, yet, Dave offers a brief glimpse of a leer. "You're into that sort of shit? Never would have pegged you for a fuckin' weeb, Karkat." He tuts and shakes his head.

Naturally, you feel the need to defend yourself. "I'm not a goddamned weeb!" you sputter. "If anything, you're more likely to be one! I just liked the... I liked the romance. It's a compelling tale of the pitfalls of artificial sentience, and a commentary on the arbitrary assignment of labels to everything we, as humans, interact with. The film epitomizes inherent social problems within our fucking asswipe world." You consider arguing more, but Dave's body language says it all.

His back has straightened, his head is held high, and he's made himself into the ultimate image of cocky power. "Yeah. Thanks for the fuckin' essay, Lord Dorknut. I'll be sure to check your citations and make sure none of that poetic shit was plagiarized."

You breathe a sigh of defeat. Dave has won this round, but...

Okay, he's going to win any round. You don't have a chance against that stupid face of his, that godawful clichéd chiseled jaw, and his fascinating mannerisms. You can't compete with that, and you sure as hell can't _have_ it. Why bother fighting it? Really, you should just hand over all future arguments to him in advance. You feel compelled to curse your taste in men, because it's really becoming a pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>  [Here's the song Dave references.](https://bowman.bandcamp.com/track/come-with-me)   
> 


	12. Wanderer above the Sea of Fog [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a German Romanticist painting, and it's by Caspar Friedrich. [**Here is a link to view it!**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanderer_above_the_Sea_of_Fog) Later in this chapter, I reference another Bowman song. [**"Underneath it All" can be listened to here.**](https://bowman.bandcamp.com/track/underneath-it-all) If you're wondering what Dave would sound like, just take a gander at Joe Anderson' performance in _Across the Universe_. If you don't feel like looking at it, you can just **[look at this clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URkT3K_68Tg)**.

**Your name is Dave Strider,** or, more specifically, you're David James Strider. You've always thought it was funny how your initials spell out DJS, as if you were born into this world purely to become the sickest DJ on the planet. Your narrative cohesion isn't exactly in season, but your rhymes are ahead of the times. Okay, really, though, it's September 22 nd, and you're more than ready for your second night hosting your 6:00-7:00 radio show. It's been given an official name, now. You're now the host of, by some odd stroke of luck, the campus's most popular radio program, Get an Eyeful of This. (Statistics showed that the show drew about one hundred people last broadcast. On such a small campus, and with only an online station, that's a solid number.)

When you enter the student center, where the broadcasting equipment has been set up, you're greeted by Sollux. As usual, his voice is nasal, but orotund. His lisp gives his identity away immediately, though the blobs of red and blue at roughly eye level also reveal his identity. "Strider, I have no clue how you did it, but the radio's gotten pretty damn popular. I'm shocked. Maybe your radio personality has more charisma than your actual personality." There's a lilt to his voice, as if he's smiling. "They left some notes for me to give you." Pages rustle. "Yeah... The radio staff says good work, and they're expecting a bigger audience tonight. Break a fucking leg out there, dude." As he passes you, his sneakers squeaking against the tile floor, he pats you on the shoulder.

You've never liked people touching you, though you figure Sollux is a nice enough guy. You step inside, lean your cane against the wall, and sit down in the provided chair. The molded plastic backrest is high and hard, and the seat cushion seems to have been left to slowly deflate and deform since the 1980's. You don't complain, though. Having a seat is more than you'd expect from Bro. From your bag, you pull out the second most expensive item in your possession. It's a pair of mid-range headphones. They're not exactly of the Bose brand noise-cancelling Bluetooth variety, but they're more than enough for a simple broadcast like this.

Wiring things up has always been a pain in your ass. The bands of color around most plugs are often too small for you to see, and this setup is not different. Nonetheless, you're able to do it. When it's all finished, you go to plug your headphones in. You run your finger along the edge of the mixing equipment. Eventually, you feel the AUX port. Keeping one finger there, you take the end of your headphones' wire, and slip it in. There's a satisfying click when it fits in.

You crack your knuckles, take a mostly useless glance at the three computer monitors in front of you, and rest your fingers atop some of the sliders on the equipment. One of the screens has large text on it, which prompts you to announce the week's broadcast topic. After a few minutes, when the time is right, you fade out the music and bring your voice to the forefront. "Hello, and welcome back to _Get an Eyeful of This_. I'm your host, Dave Strider, and today we'll be discussin' all you guys need to know about inclusion."

You pause. You're aware that the diversity office isn't paying you for your personal opinions, and is banking on you being the perfect advocate for everyone on campus, but you feel the need to add to their asinine topic choice. "Now, that's one hell of a discussion. I sure as hell ain't an expert, and my advice won't be for everyone. No two people are exactly alike, sort of like how no two bags of chips are the exact same. Now, I'm openin' up the chat room and..."

Sollux was kind enough to program something to magnify the useless piece of shit chat. You scroll through, hover over a comment, and the text appears in large letters to its right. You've opted to use this rather than mixing your headphone channels, as you're planning on adding some more audio wizardry throughout the broadcast. To drown out the persistent tapping of your keyboard, you fade in some smooth jazz. When you hit a good question, you fade it out. "Okay, let's start with this one. Do I feel included in activities?"

You grab your water and take a sip. From experience, you've learned to always return the cap. Mixing can get intense, and spilling liquid everywhere doesn't help. "So, the short answer's yes. The long answer is more complicated. Some things just aren't my jam. I'm probably never going to enjoy being shown all your posters. Besides that, some groups just don't give a shit. I mean, I've been kicked out of class for not being able to read the board. Teachers would tell me to concentrate more. Not the most ideal situation, but I'm still here."

The comments keep coming in. The chat isn't flooded, but it's moving at a decent pace. "Next up... That's got nothing to do with this, but it's real interesting. KV1996 wants to know what I find attractive. I'm a real big person for voices. I like 'em nice, but not too nice. That doesn't make sense, but that's the only explanation I've got. Appearances aren't my biggest concern. I can't see well enough to really get any sort of bearing on a face unless I'm up pretty close, and that's still only a vague idea. That's about it, though. Everything else is free game."

You mute the microphone as you sneeze, then continue broadcasting. "Next up, we've got someone wondering about the promise I made last week. Now, I don't have my mixing equipment with me, but I _do_ happen to have my guitar." Again, you toggle the mute switch. After adding some generic crowd noises, you slide the chair back and grab your guitar case. You take the instrument out, tune it quickly, and return to the desk. "Now, presenting some music that none of you all know about. This one's Underneath it All, by Bowman."

At this point, you've completely forgotten the topic. You're showing off for a crowd, and it's one of the best feelings you know of. You position the microphone correctly, and set your fingers against the neck of the guitar. The worn metal strings feel so familiar, yet they seem to ring with anticipation as you begin. You've trained yourself to play in various styles. You can play everything from classical to modern, with or without a pick. For this song, you're keeping the pick. Perhaps, spurned by the energy of knowing that, at least according to the online stats, a solid one-hundred-fifty people are listening to you, you go against your usual vendetta against singing.

 _Moving on is hard,_  
_The more I fight, the more I have to lose._  
_From the very start,_  
_I should have known there would not be a use._

(Unbeknownst to you, across campus, a love-struck young man sits in his dorm room. He lays on his back in his bed, with the volume on his computer cranked up to the maximum, and listens to your song. His eyes are half-closed, his lips form a small smile, and his heart feels a pang of loss with every beat.)

 _Underneath it all,_  
_I'm sure it's no one's fault._  
_Why bother to explain?_  
_There's nothing left to gain._

(The young man rolls over, onto his side. He listens to your voice, and he finds it frustratingly wonderful. He thinks of it as the perfect, smoky songwriter voice. There's a charm to it, an endearing quality he just can't explain. His usual eloquence is long gone, and silence is all he has left. His fingers are tangled in his hair, and he bites his lip.)

Blithely unaware of the parenthetical situation, you continue to the end. As opposed to the song's actual ending, you conclude with a rapid-fire arpeggio. You set aside your guitar, taking a great amount of care to avoid scratching it against the floor, and return to the mic. "That's some music, I guess. I like to think I'm a pretty decent guitarist," you scroll through the handful of new comments, "And it seems y'all agree."

Time seems to move faster. Perhaps you're riding on the high of positive attention. Either way, the rest of the broadcast seems to fly by. You answer question after question, barely stopping, and even offer some advice. You tell your unknown audience about your experiences as a child, learning to fight after an older kid took your lunch money and beat you up. You talk about your life, and of how you think it's no different from anyone else's. Sure, your father was an ass, but he thought it would help you. Before you know it, the egg timer rings.

"And that's all the time we have for today's show," you say. "I'm Dave Strider, and I'll catch you on the flip-side. I'll be on next week at the same time." You end the broadcast, return the knobs and switches to their default positions, and gather your things. Following you, and starting at 7:30, is someone else's show. You don't know their name, but you do know it's some sort of obnoxious sports broadcast. You've heard snippets, and the announcer is a loud, boisterous blowhard. You want nothing to do with that, and you're ready to leave by 7:05. Throwing your guitar case's strap over your shoulder, you wander back to your dorm.

You've established waypoints of sorts around campus. On the corner of the campus's central area, there's a ramp right next to a sewer grate. Ahead of this, there's a low brick wall, which is often topped by a smoking student, and, past the intersection after this, is your dorm building.

You return in good spirits. You feel as if you're floating on your own inflated ego, and you can't help but show off. You spin your cane around between your fingers, and glance around. A vague lump on Karkat's bed seems to be moving, and you're certain it's your roommate. The radio is still going on his computer, so there's no way for him to deny he was watching it. "How was the show?"

"You sounded like a pompous douchebag. If that was the vibe you were aiming for, you fucking nailed it," Karkat huffs. His voice is tenser than usual, but you don't question him about it. "Remind me to never listen again."

"You know you love me," you snicker. You allow yourself the luxury of a smirk.

He responds with a disgruntled huff. "Yeah, I do," he grumbles. You're certain you weren't supposed to hear this, and it seems as if he misjudged his vocal volume. When he offers a true reply, is far less resigned. "Stuff a fucking windsock up your stupid ass, Strider."

"You don't know what I'm into, Karkat. You never know." By now, you've reverted to your usual expression. You shrug, then sit at your desk. You dig your notebook from beneath a pile of papers, and open it to the first blank page. Then, you begin your homework.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [**Here's a link to the art!**](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/165802704479/heres-another-homestuck-inspired-digital-doodle) If you like it, feel free to reblog it!


	13. Rocket Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally published out of order, so y'all get two updates I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a popular Elton John song, so I don't think I need to link it. If you want me to, let me know in the comments.

**Your name is Karkat Vantas,** and, on Friday, September 26 th, you see the first display of what Dave's magic can really do.

By now, the weather is cooling. A pleasant breeze has kept the temperatures in the mid-seventies range. And, by nighttime it's fallen even more. You've traded in your shorts for jeans, and your t-shirt for a knitted turtleneck sweater. Jade, who lives in a modest cabin, alongside Roxy and her girlfriend, Calliope, is having a small Q&A Club party. (Calliope, however, is studying abroad this semester.) She's promised a home-cooked "better than Skaia cafeteria" food dinner, and invited everyone to come. Ultimately, most of the club couldn't make it. There's a football game, and it seems more people would like to watch men slam into each other over a misshapen ball.

John and Dave carpool with you, and you pull into Jade's long, circular driveway at around 7:30. By now, the sun is mostly gone. Away from all the lights of the city and suburbs, you can see the stars. On a clear night, such as this one, you can see just how many there are. They burn brightly, and their scintillating forms capture your imagination.

Jade's home is a quaint, perfectly sized two-story country house. The wooden siding is painted a cheerful sky blue, the tin roof is a hardy bronze color, and the door is a subtle shade of red. A front porch extends the length of the house, and you can see a modest back porch, with stairs leading to the spacious backyard. The air smells of burning wood and pine needles.

When you arrive, you're greeted by Jade. She takes you inside, where Rose and Kanaya are already waiting. Shortly afterwards, Roxy serves up a delightful casserole. Then, the real party begins. Though Roxy offers you alcohol, you don't take it. Likewise, neither does Kanaya. (It seems you're both designated drivers.) Everyone else, however, is eager to accept. The group goes outside, to a a sizable fire pit, and settles into the circular arrangement of lawn chairs.

Naturally, Dave lights the blaze. He snaps his fingers, but the result is different. Rather than a small flame above his finger, the flame bursts forth from beneath the pile of wood and old newspapers. It consumes the entire base of the pit, and bursts outwards. To everyone's amusement, and your anxiety, he seems to do this on purpose. He tapers the flames off, shaping them into a vertical wall of flickering oranges and reds for a few seconds, before allowing the blaze to burn naturally.

The demonstration is met with a round of applause.

You, however, feel the need to ask a few questions. "Jesus fuck. What are you, Strider, a walking pyrotechnics display?"

There's a brief pause, but Dave eventually offers a reluctant nod. "Yeah. I'm Sparky Sparky Boom Man. I light shit on fire, make the fire do sick stunts, then disappear into the night. I'm like the Phantom of the Opera, but if he played with fires instead of singing." As you've come to expect, his face is expressionless. The flames reflect in his shades, so trying to see his eyes is also a fruitless endeavor.

"That's not how that story goes, you fucking hipster troglodyte!" you groan. Though you make a big show of burying your face in your hands, you don't really care. You've seen that he's trying to get a rise out of you, so you're going to try and provoke him. "Have you ever picked up a book in your life!? No, of course not! You'd probably open it up and try and cook some goddamned mac and cheese from it."

"I wouldn't doubt that," Rose chortles, holding her glass of wine aloft. "He's dim enough."

"I would _not_ stoop so low as to eat macaroni and cheese from a fuckin' box. I eat my meals hot and fresh, as I am. Now, I ain't going to name any names, but someone here is a fuckin' slave to the big mac and cheese man." As if it will drive home his point, Dave shakes his head and tuts.

Roxy, meanwhile, offers a bright grin. She rolls her eyes and spears a marshmallow on her metal tongs, then sticks it into the fire. "That's actually you, Davey."

"Dave hates that shit," John counters, "Dave's a huge slut for apple juice, though."

From the shades-wearing douche beside you comes an indignant huff. "Apple juice and I are in a happy monogamous relationship, Egbert, and I have no need to doll myself up. I'm damned fine as I am." As much as you hate to agree with this statement, you have to agree, even as he continues, "I'm a fire mage. I'm smokin' hot all the fuckin' time."

"The loser has a point," Kanaya replies, a smug grin spread across her face. Her jade colored lipstick contrasts her skin, and the glitter in it reflects the light of the fire like the twinkling stars overhead.

Here, Dave flushes. His cheeks burn pink, and he snaps back, "Hey! I don't hear your voice on the radio every Monday."

"Well, we don't really hear yours, Dave. We don't listen to it." Rose's reply is matter-of-fact, but not in a malicious way. You and Dave both know this.

Still, it doesn't seem to prevent Dave from deflating a bit. A heavy, dramatic sigh escapes him. "Well, fine, my craft continues to go unappreciated. It's all cool. The drooling masses of brainless media-fuckers will see my talent soon."

"I watched it," interjects Roxy. "I liked it. You're a good singer, too."

Yeah, Strider, that's one thing you do that doesn't make me want to rip out my still-beating heart with my bare fucking hands," you add.

Dave perks up a bit. He offers a brief thumbs up, then rises from his seat. He takes his cane in his hand, and approaches you. When he stops, he stares directly at the ground. You can see behind the shades, and his brows are furrowed. "Hey, Karkat, you want to talk a walk?"

"Why?" you ask, skeptical of the sudden change.

"Just because." Dave continues to refuse any attempts at eye contact.

His odd behavior, coupled with the slowly increasing whiteness of his knuckles as he holds onto his cane, moves you. "Fine." After pulling on your jacket, you stand up. Your feet crunch against some of the fallen leaves, and the heat of the fire is blown towards the two of you by a gentle breeze. Golden-orange light dances around you, illuminating your surroundings. "Come on, Strider, let's do whatever the hell you want me to." Before you continue following him, you turn towards the group. "John, if I go missing, you still can't have my computer."

John laughs. "That's fair. See you later," he calls. He offers you a wave, and a knowing smile. The latter of these things perplexes you.

Your attentions turn to Dave. As he leaves the warmth and light of the fire, he snaps his fingers again. A flame, about the size of a baseball, forms, and he shifts it from its place over his fingers to a spot above the center of his palm. The flickering, dancing flame licks at his fingers, though they remain unharmed. "So..."

"So?" you parrot, cluelessly.

Dave clears his throat. His gaze remains locked in front of him. "I'm just going to cut right to the chase. Rose said she thinks you like me."

"She fucking said what!?" you sputter. Your heart stops. You'd told her things in confidence, and now...

"She only did it because she thinks it'd help me if I hooked up with you," Dave interjects, seemingly reading your thoughts. "She said I should try settling down with someone and seeing how it goes, but I've already told her I ain't gay. I might think some dudes are nice-lookin', but they ain't on my radar."

You nod slowly. He's given you this speech a few times, though each was different. Whatever the case is, you have a feeling he's covering something. it's his life and his choices, though, and you're still a bit too annoyed to bother trying a rebuttal. "That's fucking great for you, Strider. Why did you walk me away from the group for this?"

"Just thought I'd warn you, dude. I don't want your heart gettin' crushed, okay? We're kind of pals, so that's what pals do."

Though you want to say it, you don't have the guts to tell him that he's already crushed your heart. He's stepping on it every day he exists, and this latest action is akin to him releasing four-hundred-twenty wild children onto the shattered remnants of your emotions. All you manage to muster is a silent nod. "Okay. We can go back to the group now, right?"

"Totally," Dave replies, shooting you an aloof thumbs up.


	14. Voidlight [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a song from Homestuck. **The image for this chapter is animated!** Also, not a single person seems to have asked who KV1996 is. Perhaps it was obvious?

"How do you do magic, anyhow?" The question escapes your mouth before you can stop it. This question, which has been a point of burning curiosity ever since Dave revealed his powers to you, finally comes out. And, when it does, you find yourself sitting cross-legged in your desk chair.

Likewise, Dave is sitting at his desk. Not to your surprise, he's mixing music. When he hears your question, however, he stops. He spins his chair around and quirks a brow at you. "That's a solid question, Karkat, and I don't really have a solid answer. I guess it just happens. Everyone has a little magic of some sort, but it's activated differently from one person to another. So, John can control the wind. His powers peak when he's emotional, which is true for everyone, but he generally has to be able to have a focusing point for his."

"Like a wand?" you ask.

"Pretty much," Dave agrees. He folds his arms across his chest and lets forth a pensive huff. "Now, I usually just snap. It's like that anime, y'know? Fullmetal Alchemist. Snapping is actually what made me aware of my fire shit. For some reason, that's how I make the fire."

"But, at the cookout, you were able to control it, like some sort of goddamned firebender."

"Sure, I can control a fire. That's different, though. I can only do that for fires I create, which kind of sucks. And that ain't some sort of convoluted rule, it's a thing. Rose says it's to keep the balance of nature, or something. Equivalent exchange, I guess. I can make my own fire and break my own fire, but nature's her own bitch. She doesn't need anyone nagging her about how she works." To demonstrate this, Dave lights his lighter. He waves his hand over the flame, yet it has no effect.

You nod. "How much control over your own fires do you have?"

"A lot," Dave smirks. He lights a small fire, which hovers above his left palm, and plays with it. By moving his fingers, he creates waving tendrils from the base. When he moves his whole hand, the entirety of the flame appears to obey. He seems to be able to control the size of the flame, as it grows and shrinks as he continues the demonstration. "it's mostly good for party tricks. If you're really interested, you've gotta ask Rose. She knows a hell of a lot more 'bout this fuckin' shit than I do."

You take note of Dave's commentary. Then, you return to your work. For now, you're trying to avoid talking to Dave as much as possible. The question had merely burned its way through your filter, and it had to be asked. Now, however, you've received what you needed. You're not going to prolong this tenuous discussion.

Later, you retreat to Rose's room. She and Kanaya are both there, though each occupies a different bed. This is unusual, though it seems to be because each is doing something different. Kanaya is working on her sewing, while Rose busies herself with some knitting. Nevertheless, both greet you warmly. You sit in Rose's unoccupied desk chair, and heave a disgruntled sigh.

In return, Rose speaks up. "I assume your discussion with Dave last night did not go well?"

You nod. "He gave me the 'I'm not gay' spiel again," you mutter. "I mean, I'm not going to fucking push him. He already seems to have enough shit on his plate, but I'm also certain he's not being one-hundred percent honest."

"Dave is gay as hell, might I say," Kanaya mutters.

Rose snickers. "Yeah, he's just being stubborn. There's a lot of bullshit from his father still sticking around in his mind, so it might take some time. You do, however, have feelings for him, right?" Here, Rose eyes you expectantly. For some reason, the lights in the room seem to dim. "I would assume so, as it's painfully obvious."

"It's not _that_ fucking obvious, Lalonde," you snap. "I keep my feelings under the most impregnable lock and key in the goddamned galaxy!"

"Actually, that's Dave," says Rose, a small smile gracing her features. "Like I said, he needs time. For now, just continue to stick around. I understand how infuriating he is, but he means well. He's a genuine and altruistic individual underneath his many layers."

"I'd never guess," Kanaya snickers.

You and Rose also find humor in her comment. However, Rose offers up a few words in Dave's defense. "He's an expert at subverting his own emotions and gaslighting himself into believing he's fine. It's a coping technique, which I'm well acquainted with. After all, he _is_ my cousin. And, though he won't admit it, we've been in contact since we were young."

"Well, I have to wonder what sort of outlandish personality Dave had in the past." Kanaya never looks up from her sewing. By now, she seems to have added a solid three inches of golden lace embellishments to a strip of white cloth. "He must have been quite an interesting character."

You nod. "Yeah, I can't imagine Dave as anything other than the self-righteous fucker he is today. What, was the asshole born with those foul excuses for eyeglasses on his face?"

"John sent him those," Rose shrugs. "Besides that, Dave hasn't really changed much. Even as a child, he was reserved. He tends to hide behind colorful terminology and obtuse metaphors. I believe he got it from watching a few too many Western films, but I don't really know. Westerns aren't my forte, so I don't partake in them often. Thus, I have no conclusive base on which to build this argument."

In return, you nod. You stare upwards, at the overhead light, and note that it's beginning to brighten. In fact, now that you're looking at it, it almost seems brighter than any of the other ones you've seen. You recall Dave saying something about Rose being capable of magic, and you're certain he said she controlled light. Now that the idea has planted itself, however, you decide to indulge it. "Dave said to ask you any questions I had about magic."

"Yes. I've done extensive research on the topic," Rose affirms. "Everyone has a certain degree of magical ability within themselves, but its potential and specific applications are highly variable. Some people have little more than the ability to detect ghosts, while others, such as Dave, have elemental control."

It takes you a few minutes to rebound after Rose's mouthful. Whenever she goes on rambling, borderline academic speeches, you have to take a breather. Once you've recovered, however, you continue to prod her for knowledge. "So, what sorts of powers are there?"

"Quite a few," Rose says. "The ones I'm aware of include the ability to manipulate any classical element, supernatural detection, light, and shadow. Many of them are mere parlor tricks, but they're splendid for parties."

"That's exactly what Dave said," you point out.

"Yeah, Dave is always looking for stupid, over-the-top ways to impress uninterested women," Kanaya interjects. Her voice is flat, though you can see her smirking.

Rose laughs at the commentary. "That's true. But, he's not into using his powers extensively. He could easily do a lot of damage, and he possesses the potential to do so, but he refrains. The bonfire at yesterday's party is likely the biggest he'll go, outside, of course, self defense."

"That's like bringing a bazooka to a fistfight," you scoff. "You can't just use literal fucking magic in self defense."

"And Dave rarely does, but some situations have necessitated it." Rose shrugs. There's an enigmatic look in her eye, something that seems like a mixture of disgust and annoyance. However, it's gone before you can really analyze it. "But, as I was saying, Dave has tremendous power. He's born under what I believe to be the magical influence of time."

"And, yet, he flings fire from his hands, not clocks," you interject.

Kanaya, who had been sipping some of her water, sputters. She excuses herself to the bathroom, where you can hear her laughing between coughs. You consider asking if she's alright, but you know she is.

"Yes, time seems to be one of the stranger elements. Rather than grant the ability to manipulate the namesake influence, one gains the ability to control fire. My working theory is that fire recalls the dawn of time, and, thus, transcends history." The flowering, academic prose, which seems to flow naturally from Rose's mouth, never ceases to amaze you. "Now, John's is a direct influence. Under wind, he controls breezes. He rarely uses this, but he often has a cooling aura around himself. It's a subtle thing, and I doubt you've seen it. What use is cooling oneself down in perfect weather?"

Around now, Kanaya emerges from the bathroom. She scrambles back onto her bed, but says nothing.

You, however, continue pestering Rose. "And you and Dave keep saying everyone has power. Is that some sort of pluralist bullshit? Are you just trying to be nice, and pulling that theory out of your asses, or is that true?"

"The sources I've studied all indicate that each person has the power to control something. I've yet to discover all the available magics." Rose pauses. She snips the length of yarn she's been working with, and splices it with a length of black yarn. "Not everyone has the same level of power, though."

"So, I could be able to move a fucking mountain, or I could just move a marble one half of a fucking inch?"

"Exactly," Rose nods. "You seem to have quite a bit of energy about you, though, so I'd guess your powers are strong. Your only drawback is that you, like most people, have yet to find what activates them."

"So, what? I level up to a certain point, and rub myself against a mossy stone?"

"This isn't Pokémon, Karkat," Kanaya says.

You roll your eyes.

Rose continues to provide information. "Not really. It's more of an emotional thing. I can say that Dave has had fire powers for quite some time, and I believe it stems from his abuse. His powers are natural reactions to danger, and he's merely learned to control his emotions enough to summon the flames at will. Or, perhaps, his emotions are so uncontrolled that he can always utilize an otherwise limited ability."

"Well, then, what _would_ activate my power?" Though you've only just learned of magic, you're already interested. In some way, you feel as if it will let you know more about yourself. Perhaps, it's a sort of fucked up Patronus. Your powers appear to correlate to your personality, and you're determined to learn what your gift is. "How do I make this shit work?"

"It's not quite that easy," Rose tuts. "It just happens. My powers came about, oddly enough, the first time I read a good book."

Kanaya coughs again, though this is one of those fake coughs used to poorly cover a comment. "(Cough.) You mean wizard porn, my dear. (Cough.)" An innocent smile punctuates her commentary.

Rose ignores it. "What will spur the activation of your powers is individual to you, Karkat. From what I know of you, however, it seems romance is of great importance in your life. I'm willing to bet that your first true romantic encounter will allow you to use your powers."

"I've dated umpteen times!" you shout. In frustration, you tangle your fingers in your hair. You groan. "So, you're saying none of those were romance?"

"They were, but I'm saying that you need to be in the perfect place in your life. It's an extremely complex system. Beyond that, not everyone will achieve the right criteria to enable their abilities. However, if you should happen across such a situation, do inform me of your powers. I'm keeping a journal of them, and I plan on creating an informational text on my research."

You nod. Though Rose says few people ever manage to use their powers, you feel as if you shouldn't be one of them. All you need is one push. Perhaps, knowing that you can obtain any sort of power is a factor in activating them. Perhaps...

Your mind races, trying to think of any way to achieve your goal. Thoughts bombard you, slamming all around you like mortar rounds, yet you persist. Somehow, you're going to unlock whatever magic you have, because you _need_ to know what you're good for. Perhaps magic will be what you need to make people like you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, **[Here's a link to the image post](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/165833474534/heres-a-short-little-animation-i-did-if-you-like)** for reblogs and consumption!


	15. Caresse sur l'Océan [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from _Les Choristes_ , and [**here's the usual link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEs1wtsw_IA).

October 1st is a cold, breezy day. The leafs are turning yellow, and common clothing is shifting from shorts to jeans. Though it's been overcast for the past few days, it's only begun to rain today. It's heavy, unrelenting, and expected to last all day. Even with a golf umbrella, you're soaked to the bone by the time you're halfway back to your dorm. Your notebook is safely tucked away in your backpack, though, so you're confident that your notes will survive the deluge. Your ratty Vans shoes, however, do not seem to be so forgiving. Your wet socks cling to your feet, and produce unpleasant squelches with every step. Nothing short of an immovable object will stop your determination to return to the dorm, which is why you're fucking floored when something does just that.

Or, rather, it's not some _thing_. It's some _one_. It's Dave, wearing soaking wet clothes and huddled beneath the overhang of the old gymnasium. A lit cigarette hangs from his mouth. His shades are askew, and the left lens is cracked. Angry, purple bruising surrounds the exposed eye, and the lid has swollen shut. The knees of his jeans are worn thin, and blood stains his left pants leg. To your surprise, his hands are empty. Something happened, that much is obvious, but you doubt he'll tell you what. He never revealed what happened the last time he returned to campus in this condition, so you assume he won't divulge anything now, either.

Nonetheless, you approach.

Though you can't hear your own footsteps, it seems he can. He raises his gaze upwards, tilts his head, and pulls his cigarette from its spot between his lips. (Now that you're closer, you realize that dried blood surrounds the lower left portion of his mouth. Some rusty red also stains his sleeve, indicating that he tried to wipe some of the blood away.) "What the fuck are you lookin' at, pal?" His voice is harsh and scornful. There's a bitterness to it that you've never heard before.

Still, you persist. "I just came to check on my pain-in-the-fucking-ass roommate," you shrug.

To your surprise, this response seems to have a calming effect. His tense shoulders relax, and his voice takes on a calm, even tone. "Thanks, I guess..." He seems flustered, as if he doesn't know how to react to kindness. "My cane broke, so I texted John. Usually, he's on it in seconds, but he's started hanging out with that goddamned spider bitch..."

"Spider bitch?" you ask.

Dave nods. "Yeah. The bitch in charge of D&D club. Vriska. She's been taking up all his fuckin' time, so I haven't seen squat from him. Jack shit. That guy is one or the other. He's either the slaving, workaholic employee, or he's a fuckin' absentee dipshit. Anyhow, he hasn't responded to my texts, so I guess you'll do. Seeing as my cane broke, and I'd like some help getting back to the dorm. I mean, I can do it fine by myself, but it's a lot slower without something to help me out. I'd rather not get more rain on my than I already have. I've got one last spare cane in the room, so I'll be fine once we're back." A sheepish smile flashes across his face, but it's gone before you can commit it to memory.

You, meanwhile, nod. "I'm heading back there, too, so I might as fucking well. How do I go about doing this?"

"Just let me take your shoulder, since you're fuckin' short."

You step towards him, and Dave's fingers fumble with your faded grey sweatshirt. He clings to it, his grip surprisingly strong, and nods. "You're an okay guy, Karkat."

"You keep saying that. I'm not sure what the fuck it's supposed to mean, but I suppose a compliment from you is some sort of high praise." Beginning onwards, you keep an eye on Dave. His expression is as enigmatic as ever. "So, what the hell happened? And don't go pulling something from your ass, I don't think a fall could do this."

Dave shrugs. When you step off the sidewalk curb, he follows. He draws his jacket closer to himself, and chews his lip. "It was a fight. Nothing big."

"I'm assuming you lost?"

A nod. Dave trails a few steps behind you. His brows are furrowed. A small bit of his left eye is visible beneath the swelling, though it seems to remain locked straight ahead. "It ain't worth a lie. I got my ass kicked."

"Well, if the blind jackass can see that much, it's pretty fucking bad," you snicker.

Dave ignores your commentary. Instead, he seems to jump to a completely different topic. "When's the first break?"

"In about a week," you say. "You're going home, right?"

"Shit," Dave breathes, his voice barely audible against the backdrop of the pounding rain. "Hey, weird question, can I come home with you?"

Your feet continue to carry you forwards, but your mind grinds to a screeching halt. "What?"

"Look, my home life ain't exactly peachy. In fact, it's kind of pear-shaped. I'd rather decapitate myself than go home, and Alternia's in the opposite direction. Can I come home with you?" Dave's words bled together, and he speaks quickly. There's urgency in his voice, and there's something else. Beneath the forced apathy, you hear fear. You can see it in the way his brows are knit together, and in how his shoulders slouch.

You wonder what could possibly make him feel this. What could be so wrong at his house that he doesn't want to return? "I don't think my parents would mind, but we _are_ and Indian family. If you don't like spicy food, you might be in for a hungry week."

"I've been starved before." The way Dave says this, his voice carrying so little care or concern for himself, frightens you. It startles you. You've always known he's a bit reckless, but you never realized the extent. "Bro starved me for a week after he found out I was chatting with John. I can stomach some shit I'm not too keen on."

A slow nod serves as your response. You open the door to dorm building, and lead Dave to the elevator. The ride up is silent, as is the short walk down the hallway. When you enter the room, however, you feel compelled to speak up. "Bro sounds like a real douchebag."

"He's my dad," Dave shrugs. "But, yeah, he ain't the nicest guy. Uh..." He seems to want to say more. His mouth hangs open and, with his shades off, you can see that he's staring at the floor. However, it seems that he decides against it. Instead, he shakes his head. He grabs a washcloth, wets it, and wipes his face off. The dried blood comes away, revealing a nasty split lip. "If we're being real, he did this."

"How the hell did he beat you up? We're on a campus twenty minutes from where you supposedly live," you sputter. Your heart twists, and your stomach churns.

Dave, however, is unaffected. He folds his arms across his chest, wincing as he does so. "Twenty minutes ain't too bad of a drive. He came up, figured out my schedule, and told me that he wasn't paying any of my loans. I told him to calm the fuck down, seeing as he's on a goddamned campus, and he grabbed me. He dragged me into an alley, kicked my ass, and left me on the street. Said something about never wanting to see me again. Well, lucky for that bastard, I can't see him, anyhow." Now, looking at him without his shades, you realize that his right eye is also swollen.

A pang of sadness turns to a wave of anger. You're not exactly Dave's best friend, but you're not a monster. To see something like this happen to him, a fairly decent guy, is inexcusable. "Well, your Bro's a fucking bastard. You know who beats up their own sons? Evil fuckers with no morals, weak constitution, and vitriol for blood. You should have a restraining order stapled to that bastard's forehead."

"I do," Dave says, his voice soft and frightened. He sits in his desk chair, his knees pulled to his chest, and, for the first time since you first met him, you realize that he's human. He's as vulnerable as you, and his aloof façade is just that. It's a ruse. "I can't do shit about it. He'll just say I lied. I had a damned rough childhood, so the police ain't going to believe me. The only reason I'm here, and not at a school in a goddamned different state, is I have a history of petty theft."

"Oh." You voice is as small as his.

In the back of your mind, a memory surfaces. Whenever you were afraid, you father would beguile you with tales of his life in India. He'd tell you about how his father, your grandpa, made a living as a rickshaw puller. While you're not certain that neither your grandfather nor your father actually hosted any nobility, as he once said they did, you found the tales captivating. They distracted you from the matter at hand and, perhaps, such a ruse will work with Dave. You don't have any stories to tell, but you figure you can get him to talk about something else.

"Have you ever owned a pet?" You ask this question with all the conviction you can muster. You want Dave to invest himself in this.

And Dave takes the bait. "Not really, but I might have tamed a few crows on the penthouse rooftop."

"Penthouse?" you whistle. if you were to go by Dave's meager possessions, you'd say that he lived in a run-down old studio apartment. To hear that he's actually from a goddamned penthouse is a mind-blower. "Really?"

"Yeah. We weren't supposed to go on the roof, but I'd sneak up there every now and then. I fed the birds cheese puffs. Cheetos, y'know? Eventually, the birds must've started passing around rumors. 'Hey, Bird Jim, did you know there's some blond idiot just handing out motherfuckin' cheese puffs on the roof of Grand Houston Apartments? No more picking them out of trash cans or swooping in for filthy seconds, we've got this shit made.' Something like that."

You can't help but smile at his commentary. "Birds don't talk, Strider, you dense fuck."

"I know," Dave counters, "But that's what they'd say if they did. Anywho, these birds would just show up in droves whenever I came outside. I'd give them some of my cheese puffs, and they'd fly off, all fat and happy. Not sure it was the best thing to feed them, but it worked."

"So, you're some sort of fucking bird-whisperer?" Now, you smirk. You quirk your brows and roll your eyes. "What, are you going to keep a crow in our room?"

"I could if I wanted to," Dave shrugs. "They're pretty damn smart, actually." Here, Dave pauses. He stares out the window, though you're not sure what he's looking at. Perhaps, he's recalling something. Whatever it was he'd been doing, he eventually returns to reality. "Yeah, the birds and I were tight as fuck. You've heard of cracking open a cold one with the boys, well I cracked open some cold ones with the fuckin' crows."

You try to suppress your laugh, but it comes out as a bemused snort. "You're the epitome of a dork, Dave Strider. Open up a dictionary, flip to the page for 'dork,' and you'll see your own stupid face looking back at you."

"That's a fair conclusion," Dave says, "But I propose this: If you go to the page for 'verbose jackass,' you'll see yourself. DAMN! Checkmate, dude." By now, Dave seems to have forgotten his prior woes. He offers you a flash of a wide smile, once again showcasing his dimples, and spins his desk chair around. He opens up his laptop, slides his headphones on, and concludes the discussion, saying, "Thanks for the chat, dude. It made me feel pretty good, so I owe you. I've got a lot of shit to do, though, so we'll catch up later."

"Yeah," you sigh, "Sounds good." You, too, turn to your work. Yet, for some reason, your thoughts are clouded. You're focused on Dave right now, and your frustrations only seem to grow.

The following morning, you find something on your desk. It's a small packet of hot chocolate mix, and a bright red sticky note has been affixed to it. Sloppy handwriting clues you in on its purpose. Naturally, you read it.

Hey, dude. Thanks for the chat yesterday, I said I owed you, but I don't really have all that much to owe you. I found this, though, so I guess that counts.

Beneath this, Dave has signed his name. You note that the signature is little more than a sloppy, conjoined 'D' and 'S'. Nonetheless, the note warms your heart. You feel accomplished, as if you've done something great, and you wonder if you might have more value than you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [**Here's the usual link**](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/165834273634/just-another-little-thing) for this chapter's art!


	16. I Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Paul Williams song, and you can [**check it out here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpHCb1laWgQ)! Sorry, this one's a little short.

"Who is Bro Strider?" you demand. You hold your place, refusing to move for anything or anyone. After everything you've seen and heard, you're determined to know who this asshole is. What does he want with Dave? What can he do to Dave, and what could he do to you?

Rose, in return, offers a blank stare. You are, after all, standing in the middle of her dorm room. "His actual name is Derek, and he's Dave's father." She shrugs, then returns to her knitting. To you, it seems as if she doesn't care. The same serene smile is spread across her face, and every passing second only serves to infuriate you more.

 _"Who is he?"_ you demand.

A soft sigh escapes Rose. She brushes some of her golden blond hair from her face, and offers you a somber stare. "He's a man you never want to meddle with, and whose path you should never wish to cross. He feels that Dave's birth was the cause of his wife's death, hence his inherent hatred towards him. It's not a complicated psychological situation, as grief often leads to improbable conclusions. However..."

"Quit all the psychobabble and just tell me who the fuck he is, Rose," you say, you voice full of exasperation. "Look, I'd like to keep my roommate from ending up dead. From what I can fucking tell, you'd like to prevent your boneheaded cousin from dying. We're allies, so cough that shit up."

"I sincerely assure you that the information you seek is not information you wish to hear," Rose hums. Nonetheless, she continues, "Derek was quite caring towards Dave for the first few years of his life, when the two were in Texas. However, from what I understand, the abuse began when they moved to Skaia. Derek became a producer and director of puppet-based pornographic films, and it seems that exacerbated his violent tendencies."

You nod. "I won't tell him you told me this," you volunteer, sensing the cause of the pause.

Rose nods. She glances at her knitting and, apparently judging it to be in good shape, she keeps going. From what you can see, she's still making the blanket from earlier. It's comprised of bands, all in a pattern. There's a thin black band, a thick pink one, and a medium width grey one; after this, the pattern repeats. "He's told you what happened to his eye, correct?"

Again, you nod.

"Well, let's say that was a mild day." Rose's smile disappears. She looks down, locking her eyes on her work. "If you pay close attention to many of Dave's mannerisms, you might notice some peculiarities associated with brain injuries. It's all extremely subtle, and I'm sure he believes he hides the symptoms well. He does, admittedly, but not well enough to pass beneath my detection."

"So, Bro is a massive douchebag?" you conclude.

Now, Rose nods. She studies her blanket's progress, then replies, "Exactly! That's the precise terminology I'd use to describe him."

* * *

When you return to the room, you find Dave mixing some music. He greets you with the usual bob of his head, and keeps mixing. After a few minutes, he stops. He pulls off his headphones, and turns to face you. The swelling around both eyes has gone down considerably, and they now burn an angry wine red. "You hitting on my sister again, playboy?"

You gag. They very thought of doing anything beyond friendly with Rose Lalonde nauseates you. "That's fucking disgusting, Strider. No, I just went over to talk. Not everything has to be about your twisted obligatory heterosexuality," you scoff.

Dave shrugs.

And, against your better judgement, you keep talking. "If anything, I'd rather hit on your insufferable ass." Once the words leave your mouth, you freeze.

Dave does, too. His cheeks turn a vivid pink, and he runs his fingers through his hair. It hasn't been trimmed or dyed lately, and the white roots are visible. "That's flatterin', but I ain't interested."

"Of course you're not," you shoot back.

* * *

Time passes, and the days begin to blur together. Of your four classes, three are issuing exams before the first break. Your brain is working overtime, burning the candle on both ends and suffering in every way. By the time Friday rolls around, you're more than happy to be done with it all. The 10th of October arrives with a great amount of fanfare across the campus. Parties are being held anywhere there's room, and cars are leaving in diaspora-like droves. You, however, have opted to stay an extra night. You have the whole week off, and you're not in the mood to fight the waves of traffic departing campus.

Still, you take time to pack. You gather your dirty laundry, and enough clothes to last until you return to campus.

Dave simply throws his few baseball shirts and jeans into his backpack.

The air between the to of you has been heavy and tense since Sunday, when you made that ill-advised comment. Since he's coming home with you, however, you feel that you need to break the proverbial ice. You clear your throat and scoot your chair up next to his. "You like cats, right?"

"I'm more of a dog person," Dave shrugs. "Cats are too sneaky. I tend to trip over them."

You nod. "Well, we've got two, Casey and Crosby."

"Crosby?" Dave snickers, and the sound tickles your senses. "Like the fucking singer?"

"Don't blame me," you say, raising your hands in the air, "My dad named him. For some fucking inexplicable reason, my dad loves that bastard."

"I'll blame your dad, then," Dave shrugs. Though he does his best to hide it, you can still see hints of the hand-sized bruise around his right wrist. The cut on his lip is beginning to scab over, but it's still apparent. Whatever Bro did to him, it was more than enough to cause damage. "So, what's Alternia like?"

"Not that much different from here," you admit. "Same suburban feel, but a little bigger. We've got nothing else to brag about, though. Skaia's the bigger city, and our backwater asses can't have any more than five McDonald's to our fucking name. For all you care, we're a fuckload of country bums."

Dave seems amused by this. You see a small smile cross his face. "Well, I'll spare judgement until I get there. Are there any plans for the weekend, or're we just gonna fuck around and do whatever?"

"Second one sounds more feasible," you say. "Plans are fucking useless. You make them, and they ultimately crumble beneath the comminuted forces reality."

"Them's some big words you've got comin' out of your mouth," Dave whistles.

You roll your eyes, though you're sure Dave doesn't notice. "Is that all the shit you're taking?"

"This and my computer's all I need," says Dave. He stares upwards, towards a nonspecific point on the ceiling, and sighs. "Thanks for letting me crash your place, by the way. I ain't exactly in the mood to go back to Bro, so..."

"I understand that." Though you say this, you know you can't truly grasp what he means. You've never had to deal with the shit he's had to deal with, much like how he's never had any of the experiences you have. You suppose it's a two way street. He'll never fully understand you, and you'll never be completely aware of his feelings. Nonetheless, you feel the need to show some sort of solidarity. "If you need a place to stay during any of the breaks, just let me know."

Dave nods. It seems that he's seriously considering your offer. His words don't indicate that, though. In fact, he seems to jump to a completely different topic. "So, how far's your house from here?"

"It's about an hour. We live on the outskirts of town, in a bigger house. We're not exactly rich, but we've got a nice country place."

"Sheesh. I'll get to smell cow shit my entire break, right? Out in the fuckin' countryside, with nowhere to go but into America's waving fields of golden corn." Again, Dave smirks. Again, the expression is there for little more than a second. It, like all his other displays of emotion, is a blink-and-it's-done moment. Yet, it captures your imagination. It reminds you that, somewhere beneath that mask of apathy, there's someone you want to know. You want to see past his shell, and you're confident that the coming week will help you do just that.


	17. Nighthawks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Nighthawks_ is that one painting by Edward Hopper that doesn't have a door. [**You can view it here**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nighthawks)!

**Your name is Dave Strider,** and you've never been to someone else's house before. You were homeschooled, rarely allowed to leave the house, and only permitted to have distant internet friends. Yet, here you are, sitting in Karkat's car. The faded, cracking leather seat vibrates uncomfortably against you, though you find solace in the breeze from the open window. The engine purrs, yet the mechanical components seem to squeak periodically. Wind rushes past, rumbling as it whips by the car. The car stereo softly plays music from your iPod, as Karkat gave you permission to use his auxiliary tape player.

The path ahead is featureless, save for the grey of the road and the greenery on either side. As far as you can tell, the longer Karkat drives, the deeper into rural hell you get. You've never been fond of rural settings, as you find them lonely. If something happens to you in the middle of nowhere, there'd be no one there to know. Nonetheless, you feel safe beside Karkat.

"We're about ten minutes away," Karkat says.

You nod. "Anything specific I should know about your place? I ain't an expert on visiting people, so I don't want to screw the pooch here."

Though you can't see it clearly, you feel as if Karkat is giving you a quizzical look. His brow is likely raised, and the edges of his mouth are probably turned downwards. "First of all, never use the turn of phrase 'screw the pooch' again, and especially not in my fucking car. Second of all, my parents don't give a shit. Just don't strip naked, or something fucking stupid like that."

You respond with a snort of laughter. "I wouldn't do that."

"Just making sure." There's a click, then a series of ticks. The car begins to turn to the left. The speed decreases, and you begin to traverse a long, winding path. From the excessive bumping of the vehicle, you can only assume it's a loose stone driveway. It winds its way up a hill, to where a rather large white blob is. And, perhaps your mouth is hanging open, because Karkat offers even more input. "It's not that old, but it's built in typical colonial style. Symmetrical as fuck. Open concept inside, so..." Another click. As Karkat exists, the car sways gently from side to side.

You follow suit. You clamber from your spot, grab your bag from the back seat, and extend what just so happens to be your last cane. It, like the last, is a rigid fiberglass model. The end is topped by a rolling ball, and it glides across the ground with ease. You trail behind Karkat, until you enter the house. The world around you is a sea of polished wood and brightly colored fabrics. At least two ceiling fans hum above your head, and the air smells of spices and freshly baked bread.

Nearby, Karkat drops his luggage. "My parents are out right now, they'll be back later. They always go to the Saturday farmer's market." He passes you and closes the door. "Anyhow, you can stay in the guest bedroom I'll show you it when it's time."

You nod. You take a few steps forwards, but you're hesitant. Unlike your own home, or the dorm, you feel as if the things you could inadvertently hit here are valuable and fragile. From the size of the home alone, you're fully aware that anything you break here could be worth far more than your entire savings account. "So, you live here?"

"No, this is where I go when I want to interview for a job," Karkat responds sarcastically. "Of fucking course. What else would it be?"

"It's so fuckin' big, dude," you mutter, "I've never seen a place this huge before. And... you can go anywhere you want in it?"

"Yeah?" You can hear the confusion in Karkat's voice. Again, you can picture in your mind what his face looks like. "That's the point of having different spaces with defined functions within a dwelling, shitlord."

You shrug, and move towards what you believe to be a sofa. "I'm just sayin'. Bro never let me leave my room without asking, and the times he said I could were rarer than steak tartar."

A quiet growl escapes Karkat. He passes you, and his actions indicate that you are, indeed, heading towards a sofa. "If I ever meet Bro, I'll kick that cowardly piece of shit where it hurts," he huffs. "No, you're allowed anywhere in this place. We've got rooms for fucking years, Strider."

A nod suffices as your response. You settle down on the sofa, though you place a good foot of space between yourself and Karkat. While you're assured that you are perfectly, on-hundred-percent straight, you can't help but keep yourself away from him. Whenever you're too close, you get an odd feeling. A strange warmth rises from your stomach, and spreads throughout your body. An unpleasant sense of some unfamiliar emotion overpowers your thoughts, and you find yourself unable to think. No, you're steering as far from that shit as you can. You already have enough on your plate, and that doesn't need to be added as a second course.

* * *

According to your watch, it's noon when Karkat's parents return from their shopping. His father is swift to scurry off to put away the groceries, but his mother stays behind. From what you can tell, her skin is slightly lighter than Karkat's. In terms of height, she's only a small bit shorter than you, making her taller than Karkat. She smells of lotus flowers and eucalyptus, and her voice is sweet and soft. "So, you're Dave Strider?" she asks, offering out her hand. When you take it, you find that her skin is soft and smooth, like Karkat's. "My little crab has told me all about you."

"MOM!" Karkat groans. He shuffles backwards, away from you.

"You have," his mother snickers. "You can call me Dolorosa, by the way."

"Thank you for lettin' me stay here for the week, ma'am," you say.

She chuckles. "Oh! You never mentioned how sweet he is. I can see why you have him as a friend, dear."

Again, Karkat groans. "Yes, mom, now is there anything you need?" His shoes scuff against the floor.

"Not really, my little crab." By now, you assume that this is Karkat's pet name. It takes a great deal of effort not to laugh whenever it's mentioned.

"Awesome." Karkat grabs you by the shoulder, and turns you towards him. Then, he passes you. As he hasn't said a word, you assume he wants you to follow him.

You trace his footsteps, staying perfectly in line with his steps. Doing this allows you to avoid using your cane, thus negating any possible damage you could do to furniture. You pass beneath a rounded arch, into a hallway, wherein he enters the first door on the right. When you follow, you're thrown into a surprisingly bright space. The walls are made primarily of large windows, and what little wall there is has been painted sky blue. Though the floor remains the same hardwood as the main living space, a bright red rug occupies the center of the room. What appears to be a bed, with tall, elaborate posts at each corner, is in the corner.

"Welcome to my den of shame," Karkat huffs, plopping onto his bed. He gestures around, using a wide, sweeping motion. "As you can see, I live in the retrofitted sun room. Who the fuck needs one of those, anyhow?"

"I could definitely live without one," you say. "This is way bigger than my room." You walk around a bit. There's a computer desk, and a goddamned pinball table all in the same room. It's mind-boggling to you, and it's a far cry from the dark, dingy space you live in at home. "All of this shit is yours?"

"You ask some fucking weird questions," Karkat tuts. A quiet thud seems to indicate that he's fallen back, into the plush sheets on his bed. "Yeah, all this is mine. I share none of it. I could even make a stupid joke about the pinball machine, but it doesn't work. Dad and I have been trying to fix it for a while, but we have no fucking clue what's wrong with it."

Around now, something brushes against your leg.

Karkat leaps from his bed, rushes towards you, and scoops the culprit into his arms. Now, you can see that it's an orange cat. It purrs happily in his arms, and he seems more than happy to indulge it with chin scratches. "Look like this fucker wanted to meet you. Dave, meet Casey. Casey, meet Dave. The two of you are acquainted, now." He inches towards you, and you can smell him. He's beginning to smell a bit like you, with hints of cigar smoke now tainting his scent. "You can pet her if you want."

You consider the offer. You're an animal person, sure, but you're not really fond of cats. Rose said she had a few, and there used to be some strays wandering around the apartment building. However, the fact that Karkat is holding this particular cat emboldens you. Slowly, you reach out. Your fingers graze the soft fur, only to be interrupted by a sharp sting and a hiss. "SHIT!" You withdraw your hand, drop your cane, and run your fingers along your arm. Warm, sticky blood ebbs from the wound on your inner forearm. "Jesus fuck... This is why I don't like cats, dude."

Karkat, in his defense, immediately sets the cat down. He rushes to his bed, and pulls something from beneath it. He approaches you, and takes your wrist in his hand. His grasp, unlike Bro's, is gentle. His hands are warm, and his voice is surprisingly gentle, "You were about to poke her in the face, you imbecilic fuck. No wonder she scratched you."

"I couldn't see that," you pout.

Karkat replies with a quiet laugh. He presses some gauze to your arm. The sensation is strange, yet familiar. Normally, you'd do this for yourself. Until now, the only person to mend your wounds and tend to your pains was, well, you. Until now, no one had shown you a gentle, careful touch, and you find that you like it. That inexplicable feeling arises, and your heart pounds against your chest.

"FUCK!" Karkat withdraws his hand. He shakes it off, and you feel as if he's staring at you. "Strider, why the hell is your skin so goddamned hot. And don't go pulling your usual smug shit, you know what I mean."

Heat rises to your cheeks. From time to time, when you're overcome with emotion, your body temperature will rise or fall in accordance. It seems that now is one of those times. "Sorry," you mutter. "Look, just give me the fuckin' bandages and I'll..."

"I started, I'll finish," Karkat says, stubbornly. He takes your wrist again, and presses a length of gauze to your arm. He wraps it around your forearm, until it's comfortably tight, and ends by snipping it free. Some medical tape seals the deal, and it ends his physical contact with you. Yet, when he releases his grip, you find yourself wanting more. You want him to hold your hand.

You pause. You've never desired human contact before. Until now, any human contact was either strictly social, or wholly negative. No matter how hard you try, you can't recall a single time that Bro offered you a loving touch. You don't remember ever receiving a hug, and you were certainly never given the comfort of him bandaging your wounds. Yet, here's your goddamned roommate, doing just that, and you can't seem to get over it...

Here, in the middle of Karkat Vantas's goddamned room, you find yourself in a predicament. Now, in the late afternoon hours of a windy mid-October day, you realize that you might not be as straight as you thought.


	18. Somebody Super Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Here's the song!**](https://vimeo.com/13894445) It's from ~~the best movie EVER,~~ _Phantom of the Paradise_.

**Your name is Karkat Vantas** , it's October 11th, and you're currently sitting at your family's dinner table. Though you'd been told by your mother that your dad was serving some traditional Indian cuisine, it seems you've been duped. Right now, you're staring at what appears to be little more than some McDonald's fries and a mountain of chicken nuggets. This isn't exactly what you had in mind as a perfect home-cooked meal, but it seems Dave is more than happy.

"Aw, yeah, dude. This is just _so spicy_ ," he taunts. "I can barely stomach it."

Your mother seems amused by Dave's ruse.

You and your father, however, share the same look of distant annoyance. Perhaps, your father is slightly more annoyed. He folds his arms across his chest, and lets forth a disgruntled huff. His thick, bushy brows meet at their inner edge as he continues, saying, "I tried to cook something, but it went up in fucking flames."

"Now, now," your mother hums, her comparatively small hand patting your father's forearm, "You tried your best. I've been telling you to get someone to look at the stove for a while, now, haven't I?"

Your father responds with a grunt, though you can see an embarrassed smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Yes, ma'am..." He rolls his eyes.

The dinner continues, with everyone exchanging small talk. To your relief, your parents find some sort of charm in Dave's odd mannerisms. Moreover, Dave seems fond of your family. The concept of having to entertain Dave outside of your house, so as to avoid your parents' odd habits, no longer looms over your head like a thunderous rain cloud.

* * *

When you're done, you show Dave to his room.

Dave's room is the relatively small room beside your parents' room. It used to be yours, until you decided you'd outgrown it. The walls remain a calm sky blue, and the decals of cheerful balloons and happy clouds are in the same places as they've been for umpteen years. The bed is the same twin bed you'd slept in as a preteen, and the shelves are still stocked with storybooks and stuffed animals.

Dave steps in, and it seems he's drawn to the color of the walls. "John loves that color. I think it's his favorite," he comments. That he knows this fact startles you, as he seems like a generally forgetful person. "So, I've been demoted to childhood? Setting up shop in your old room?"

"My parents aren't fond of the idea of you sleeping in my room, and neither am I." You let him draw his own conclusions. "Now, if you need anything, I'm down the hall. Second door on the left. We share a bathroom."

"Fuckin' scandalous," tuts Dave. You're unsure of how serious this is meant to be.

* * *

Around 4:00 AM, you wake up to use the bathroom. It's sandwiched between your room and Dave's, and sound is coming from Dave's. At first, you assume he's awake. His voice is clear, loud, and surprisingly sharp. If you can hear it, something's wrong. You're honestly amazed it hasn't woken your parents. Then again, their room is soundproofed.

"Get away from me," is the first clear phrase you hear, garnered through equal parts concentration and assumption. The next is, "Don't hurt me." Concern rises within you, and you find yourself drawn to his room. You briefly return to your room, retrieve your hearing aids, and knock on his door. No reply comes. You knock again.

A heavy thud.

You rush in, and find Dave on the floor. He's buried beneath the bedsheets, which he's pulled down with himself, and his left eye has a glassy, distant look.

You kneel down beside him, and nudge his shoulder.

"FUCK!" He stares at you with a look of wide-eyed fear. "I... Karkat?" Perhaps his judgement is still clouded by sleep, as he reaches out to touch you. His fingers brush against your face, tracing your features with attentive care. When he's done, he withdraws his hand. A sigh of relief escapes him. "Did I wake you up?"

"A full bladder woke me up," you say, shrugging.

Again, Dave seems relieved. He folds his arms across his chest and leans his back against the bed. "Fuckin' awesome."

"You were yelling in your sleep, though."

The relief vanishes. Dave's face turns paler than usual, something you can't help but think of as a feat. "You heard me? Fuck. Ugh. Fuck me up the ass with a rusty pitchfork."

"Kinky."

Dave rolls his eyes, then his gaze falls to the ground. "It was a bad dream. That's it."

"A child in an iron box could say as much, Strider," you counter. "Now, I realize you're incapable of processing the fucking simple concept of empathy, so I'll let you stay as you are. I won't pry any more into your confusing affairs that I need to, but you're always welcome to come talk to me if you need to." With this, you turn. You begin to walk away.

To your surprise, he interrupts you. "I was dreaming about Bro," he mutters. He looks towards you, and, as you turn, you make brief eye contact. "I had a little brother, you know. His name was Dirk. He was two years younger than me." Now, Dave stares at his hands. "I don't know what happened to him. I reported Bro when I turned eighteen, and I haven't seen Dirk since."

For once, you're speechless. According to Dave's file, he's nineteen. Presumably, this all happened less than a year ago, and you had no clue. Words fail you, and you ultimately end up doing the only thing you can think of. You reach out, take him into your arms, and hug him.

He freezes. Then, after a few minutes, he hugs back.


	19. Summer of Farewells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is from the movie, _From Up on Poppy Hill_ , and you can [**listen to it here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DuCeb9VmJZ8)!

October 12th arrives with a deluge of rain and howling winds. Water pools in the ditches and flows over any non-porous surface, creating a miniature swimming pool in your driveway. Quiet gurgling indicates that some water has seeped inside, creeping beneath the garage door. You don't really care. Your mother is far too orderly to have anything but cars in your garage.

"Fucking lovely day out," your father huffs, pulling on his raincoat. Though you're on break, he still has to work. He waves to you, and departs. Your mother has already left for work.

Its only you and Dave.

"So, nothing is happening today?" Your guest regards you with a tilt of his head and a quirked brow. His arm rests atop the windowsill, and his fingers tap against the wood. "I mean, I'm not exactly complainin' over here. I'm the guest, I'm just wondering if there's any neat shit to do around here."

You shrug. Honestly, you live in the middle of nowhere. Hell, if there's somewhere even further out than the middle of nowhere, that's where you live. You live in the middle of the middle of nowhere, USA. It's a quiet, deeply rural area, and you're surrounded by acre upon acre of vast, wild nothingness. Your parents' wealth allows you all the modern amenities, though. Your family is the only one in the neighborhood (or the loose definition of it) to have both cable television and high-speed internet. Your home boasts a modest basement theater, as well as a spacious professional grade kitchen. Nonetheless, there's not much for you to do. You could go somewhere, but you're wary of driving in such abhorrent weather. So, you simply shrug. "I didn't have any ideas, Strider."

"Do you have any video games?" Dave smirks, as if he knows how strange the question is. "Specifically, do you have any of the Mortal Kombat games?"

"Yeah," you say, offering an unabashedly quizzical nod. "You play them?"

"Sometimes." A shrug and a sigh punctuate this comment. "I mean, I ain't a huge fan of games. A lot of them just aren't worth the time and effort it takes to learn all the cues they put in, and it's a primarily visual medium. A lot of fighting games are awesome, though. There's a solid left and right audio balance, and a lot of cues to tell you you're low on health and all that."

You consider the explanation sufficient, though you weren't really searching for one. "I'll get it out in a few minutes." You rummage through one of the lower cabinets, and pull forth a mixing bowl. Some measuring spoons are pulled from their hook, behind the double sink, and you lay out your ingredients. The plain cake mix box is the central ingredient, while the eggs, milk, and vanilla extract are all set aside. You follow the usual steps, pouring out the mixture and beating in the array of wet ingredients.

Dave seems to keep his distance. He toys with his cane, focusing much of his fidgeting on the wrist strap. "I'm taking a total fuckin' stab in the proverbial dark, but I'll guess you like baking?"

"Duh," you huff. You check your ingredients, measure out the desired amount of vanilla extract, and toss it in. "What, you don't?"

An enigmatic sigh escapes Dave. "I never really learned about that sort of shit. I know how to pop some meals in a microwave and pull 'em out when they're good and done."

You take note of this. Considering what you know about his upbringing, it doesn't surprise you. In fact, it seems to morbidly complement your knowledge of his childhood. You consider offering to show him how, but this particular recipe is almost complete. So, you finish it yourself. The next dish you make will be done with Dave's help. "How are you not fucking dead, Strider?"

"That's a solid question, dude."

You don't reply. Now, you're focused. You dutifully distribute the mixture across the bunt pan, spreading it out with a spatula as you go. The batter is thick, and you're anticipating that the outcome will be a nice, dense cake. You'll top this off with some light, whipped frosting. (Some chocolate frosting remains in the fridge, an apparent remnant of your mother's recent dessert preparations for the county library's monthly book club meeting.) But, first, it needs to bake. You set the oven to the correct temperature, then approach the television stand.

The cabinets surround your sizable television, and house a formidable collection of movies and games. The lower cabinets, which are fronted with durable glass, house your video game systems: an old GameCube, and an XBOX 360. To the left of this section is another storage space, where you keep your games. They're in alphabetical order, so finding your copy of the latest Mortal Kombat game isn't hard.

You power up the console and put the game in. Two controllers are lifted from their spot on the charger, and you claim the black and grey one. This doesn't seem to bother Dave, as he eagerly grabs the remaining red controller. Meanwhile, you navigate the menu. You choose a two-player match, and select your favorite character. You're aware that you're not the best at the game, and you've yet to beat any of the modes on any setting above easy. Moreover, your skills are only applicable to Kano, but you figure you'll do well against Dave. As rude as it seems, you assume that he's not the best at games, either.

Dave picks Scorpion. You believe this is fitting. Both have fire magic, and both have a thing for stupid, garish colors. In Dave's case, it's red; Scorpion favors bright yellow.

The match begins, and Dave's reaction time allows him to get the first hit. His character summons a column of fire, which engulfs your character. You prepare to recover, only to be pulled in my Scorpion's spear. What follows is a rapid-fire combo from Dave, which involves little fanfare. It's mostly ground attacks, albeit in quick succession. You have little time to react, and even less time to think of strategies. In less than two minutes, the screen displays the traditional fatality message.

"I was going easy on you, Strider," you lie.

In reply, Dave shrugs. It's a rather nonchalant I-don't-exactly-believe-you-but-okay sort of gesture. "Fine, I'll try going easy on you."

The next match begins. You easily get a few hits in on Dave, but ultimately miss the fifth. His character dodges it, seemingly before it's even begun. A simple backwards step, followed by a jump. On the way down, Scorpion delivers a blow. A spear enters your character, exits, and Dave once again lets his character idle. You get a few hits in, only to have the next blocked. A few grapples finish the round. The next goes about as well as the last.

"Sound cues are a hell of a thing," Dave comments, his smug grin growing. "I didn't have a whole to do in my room, but I had an old XBOX and some games. When this one came out, John sent me a copy. Past few years have just been me, my laptop, and this. It was always nice playing these things, seeing as I never won any of Bro's fights."

You pause. The meaning of Dave's statement hits you, slamming into you like a speeding tractor trailer. "Fights?"

"Bro and I would spar. He'd give me a sword and we'd duke it out on the rooftop. Never really ended well for me. Sometimes, I didn't even get a sword." Dave shrugs. He sets aside the controller and folds his hands behind his head. "These fights are easy, though. I don't even really need to look at the screen to win one. Especially not against you, dude. No offense, but you kind of suck."

"Yeah?" Though you don't consider yourself a competitive person, Dave's commentary lights a fire within you. Taking up your controller, you continue, challenging him, "If you're so good, you could beat me with your back turned!"

Dave pauses. He seems to feign deep thought. Then, he nods. He turns his back to the screen, throws his arms over the sofa's backrest, and nods. "Okay. Go for it."

You begin another match. This time, you start out by jumping. You're aware that this isn't exactly playing fair, but you're not about to let Dave's challenge go smoothly. You get the first hit. Then, you get the second. For a while, you're excelling. You've racked up a solid ten hit combo, and you've drained Dave's health to the halfway point. The victory, however, is short-lived. Dave catches on quickly, and manages to hook Kano. What follows seems to be the standard for Dave. There's a rapid sequence of impossible combinations. This time, he adds flare. The final blow results in a gory X-ray of your character being thoroughly pummeled to death. Though you try the bouncing and evading technique again, it fails quickly. You lose, and you find yourself staring at Dave's impossibly smug face.

"Fuck you," you huff, "I could probably beat you at other games!"

"Oh, I know you could," Dave nods. "I'm shit at most games, but fighting games are my jam."

You let forth a groan of defeat. You pass your controller to him, and return the other to the charger. "Fuck this. You can go kick some artificial intelligence's ass."

"Don't mind if I do," Dave hums. He navigates away from the versus fight, and begins an expert ladder challenge.

You watch as Dave steps forward, plops down on one of the two ottomans, and scoots closer to the television. By the time he's settled, he's little more than a foot from the screen. When the game begins, he tilts his head a bit to the right. From what you can tell, and going off what he's said, he bases his actions on sound cues. He seems to have a vague visual grasp on where his target is, but it seems to you that this isn't nearly as important as the audio.

Unlike your frenzied button-smashing, Dave has a set technique. He favors the spear, which he uses to pull enemies into close quarters. He'll then pummel them relentlessly, and defend until another opportunity to use his spear arises. It's a delicate balance, which sometimes gets interrupted. At times, his character's health is nearly drained before he gains the upper hand. Still, he wins every match. In fact, when the egg timer begins to buzz, he's reached the final boss.

Eager to see the results, you leap from your seat. You scramble to the kitchen, which has a clear view of the living room, and pull your creation from the oven. As usual, you set it aside to cool down. Applying frosting to it now would only be a massive, messy mistake. By the time this is done, it seems Dave has won his first round against the final opponent. You sit down just as the final round begins.

The action is almost too fast for you to follow. In general, you're not an expert with rapid, chaotic gaming such as this. You prefer slower, more strategic games. Dave, however, thrives in the pandemonium. He easily counters most of the attacks from the boss, and easily claims a massive advantage. Within two minutes, the fight is over. The victory is announced. Dave turns to you, offering a cocky thumbs up. Despite this self-confident display, it seems that Dave is truly proud of himself. As the rain continues to beat against the windows, and the wind howls relentlessly outside, you see Dave smile for the second time. The expression lingers on his face longer than usual, allowing for you to truly take it in. You commit it to memory, making note of every subtle scar of worry on his upper lip.


	20. The Garden of Earthly Delights [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from possibly my favorite 16th century painting ever, by Hieronymous Bosch. [**You can view it here!**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Garden_of_Earthly_Delights)

**Your name is Dave Strider,** and it's October 13 th. The weather has cleared, and Karkat has invited you to help him with the garden. Apparently, his family is big on having fresh produce. The space is indoors, albeit a small walk from the house. From the consistent squelching of the ground beneath your feet, you assume your canvas shoes are covered in dried mud. Outside, it's cold; inside this greenhouse, it's quite warm. You've taken off your jacket, and you're now kneeling in dark dirt. You're holding a bag, into which Karkat is depositing all the harvested produce, and being hit in the face with the occasional stray lump of parsley.

"Mom's the gardener," Karkat explains. Though you've made the observations before, you can't help but make them again. His voice is smoky and gruff, like some sort of goddamned spiked-vest-wearing motorcycle gang member. Yet, at the same time, it's mellow and smooth, like a children's show announcer. It's a strange combination, which you can't help but compare to the sensation of drinking some good hot chocolate on a cold day. "Dad kills every plant he touches. He's not even allowed in here."

You nod. The bag has grown considerably in weight, though you don't really mind. You're used to carrying heavy loads.

"You said you had a little brother at some point, didn't you?" Karkat pauses, offering you a chance to answer.

Honestly, you've yet to speak to anyone about this. Aside from the fact that it happened less than a year ago, you simply haven't had the time to think about it. Now that you do, however, you find yourself beating back tears. (Your brother always said that Striders don't cry. Men don't cry.) "Yeah, Dirk," you say, forcing yourself to maintain an even tone. "He's technically my half-brother. Bro had so many goddamned one-nighters that I can't keep track of 'em, but one of them ended with Dirk. He's a cool kid. Real smart. He kept me company in my room. He had a real knack for robots. He'd show those sick fuckers off all the time, and I'd act like I could make out enough of it to be impressed. Not that they weren't impressive. They blew your tits clean off with how fuckin' awesome they were, but I didn't really understand any of it."

From Karkat, there comes a seemingly unconscious hum. It's an affirmation, a signal that he's still paying attention.

And, though you've never truly spoken to anyone about your life, you find yourself doing just that. For some reason, you feel comfortable around Karkat. While you've long considered John your best friend, he's far from the perfect person to approach when you have problems to deal with. "Bro liked Dirk a lot more than he liked me. Hell, the bastard damn well hated my fuckin' guts. I might as well have been a naked personification of Satan, waving my goddamned flaming dick around and screaming obscenities. Bro'd never touch me unless it was to fight."

"I fucking hate Bro," Karkat says.

You nod. "I'm sure you've said that a few times." Here, you pause. You consider the situation. Continuing your tale will mean telling someone more than you've ever told anyone. If you keep going, there's no turning back. Part of you fears divulging the information, and the rest of you wants to let it out. Of these two urges, the latter wins. You take a deep breath, and divert your gaze to the inside of the sack in your hands. "Bro rarely sparred with Dirk, but he did sometimes. And those were some fuckin' bad times. Those fights were no-mercy. Total mayhem. Bro with a sword versus Dirk with his fists. It was absolute bullshit, and I'd had enough of it."

You have a feeling that Karkat is looking at you. The quiet, muffled sounds of shifting dirt and the rhythmic plucking of harvesting herbs has stopped. "And you reported him?"

"I damn well did," you huff. "I knew he'd know who did it, and I stayed behind. If I went with Dirk, who knows what sort of shit would've happened. The bastard would've trailed us like a fuckin' bloodhound. Besides, I sure as fuck ain't the person to raise a kid."

"You did the right thing," Karkat says.

The reply causes you to pause. You've never told anyone this information, so you've never had anyone ever tell you that what you did was right. In fact, for the past year, you've been wondering whether or not it was. For all you know, Dirk could've been dumped in an even worse situation. For all you know, your little brother resents you for abandoning him. You've been plagued by lingering guilt and nightmares. And, now, you're being told that your actions were more than justified. You're being told you were right to do what you did.

Perhaps sensing your confusion, Karkat continues, "You got your little brother out of a shitty situation, and you sacrificed yourself to keep him safe. That takes some fucking guts. As much as I hate to say it, considering the possible implications it could have as far as your already inflated ego goes, I've got to admit that you're a fucking hero. Sure, people talk and act tough, but it seems to me that few of those ass-sniffing cowards would actually follow through. You did more than that. You did _way_ more than that."

You nod. "So, you really think I did the right thing?"

"I'm not repeating all that shit again, Strider," Karkat warns. "Look, I'm just going to say that you've got some proverbial balls of pure steel."

A warmth rises within you. The sensation is unfamiliar, but pleasant. Pride? Affirmation? You can't place it, but you recognize it as something good.

"Honestly," Karkat says, bringing you back to reality, "I wish I had half of your fucking fortitude. I was never one for doing much more than saying shit." At this point, the sounds of harvesting resume.

And, seeing as he's comforted you, you feel obligated to do the same for him. You feel as if you won't do nearly as well, but you can at least make an effort. "Well, you're trying. That's all any of us can do, right? We're just tiny fuckin' ants, skittering around and getting stepped on because we can't figure out where the hell that cube of sweet, sweet sugar is."

To your surprise, Karkat laughs. It's a robust, husky sound. It makes your heart pound against the walls of your chest and your breath catch in your throat. "You say the weirdest shit, Strider. You just open your mouth, and out comes this fucklanche of bullshit similes and heteroclitic sayings. Someone inputs something mundane, and, like some sort of goddamned nonsensical computer program, you'll vomit up some sort of response that's so exaggerated even a fisherman wouldn't fucking believe it."

"Naruto might believe it," you counter, smirking. When Karkat replies with a poorly stifled snicker, you keep going, "And you're one to talk big fuckin' encyclopedic words about going on and on about abso-fuckin'-lutely nothing. At least I'm approachable with my smooth-as-creamy-peanut-butter vernacular."

Now, it seems that Karkat is joining the debate with wholehearted vigor. He scoffs. "Yes, I'm sure a business interview will go fucking perfect for you! You can just walk in and say 'y'all,' and the management will shit themselves in surprise. 'I've never heard such a motherfucking horrific bastardization of the already convoluted English language! Someone stop the presses, tell them we've found the next wordweaver,' they'll say."

"My point exactly," you say.

"I was being facetious, you dense troglodyte," Karkat groans. Despite his commentary, you can hear the insincerity in his voice. His tone matches that of someone smiling; it has the same lilt. "Look, Strider, I'm clearly the more intellectual of us. I excel in academic disciplines, and I'll kick your ass any day in a game of trivia." As he speaks, a strange thought crosses your mind: How soft are his lips?

You freeze. Certainly, you can't be having feelings for Karkat. He's your roommate, and he's your friend. There's nothing romantic about it. No, you're sure every guy wonders what their best friend's lips are like. You're sure it's common to zone out as your best friend speaks, and to indulge yourself in the simple sensations of their voice. You're sure...

Momentum moves you forwards like an inelegant, dying swan. Your lips touch his, and your suspicions are confirmed. They're soft as hell.

Realization pulls you back. You rip yourself away, sit upright, and stare at him with a look of wide-eyed horror. You're aware that he can't see it, as your eyes are hidden, but you're certain he knows. You know that your entire face is burning like a thousand watt bulb. You know your heart is pounding, beating like a bass drum in your chest. "Shit," you breathe.

You can't see his reaction. You're not close enough to make out how he responds. You merely hear his answer. "Fuck." His voice is surprisingly soft. There's a vulnerabiliy you've never heard before, and there's a sort of quiet awe.

Now, what sort of awe this is will remain pure speculation. You're not about to stick around long enough to find out. You drop the bag, grab your cane, and leap to your feet. Then, you leave.

"Strider!" Karkat calls you from behind, but you don't respond.

Instead, you sprint for the house. Once inside, you head directly to the room you've been allowed to sleep in. You slam the door shut, and run your hand along the left side. After a few seconds, your fingers touch the cool metal of the deadbolt. You lock it in place, set your cane aside, and press your back to the door. Slowly, you slide to the ground. When you're down, you pull your knees to your chest.

You've fucked up. You've absolutely, irrevocably fucked up.

You keep to yourself for the rest of the day. Though Karkat attempts to coax you outside, you refuse his offers. You're not in the mood to play games, nor are you up for eating. In fact, the doubt-fueled nausea churning in your stomach would likely expel anything you put into you as quickly as it went down.

You feel as if you should call Rose. She always knows what to do. As much as you'd hate to admit it to her face, she's got good advice. She knows how people tick, and that seems to be what you need right now. You've pulled your phone out several times, yet you've yet to be able to bring yourself to call her. By the fifth try, you realize this course of action is little more than a fruitless cycle. Beyond that, you're accosted by messages from Karkat each time you try.

By 5:00 PM, you've sprawled out on the rug in the middle of the room. You stare at the ceiling, watching the blur that is the ceiling fan. Outside, birds blithely chirp out their songs.

By 6:00, you're curled up in the bed. You've been offered dinner, and you've refused.

At 8:00, Karkat admits defeat. He announces that he'll let you sulk, and that he is ceasing any attempts to communicate further. So, when you hear a gentle scratching at your door, you open it. In strides the same orange cat from before. If your memory is correct, her name is Casey. Identity aside, the cat rubs against your leg. She follows you to the bed and, to your surprise, she curls up beside you.

Eventually, with your arm draped over the purring cat, you fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, [**here's the link to the post**](http://godtiermeme.tumblr.com/post/166017241207/here-have-some-davekat-if-you-like-my-art-be) for the art! The daily schedule is probably gone, now, because we've caught up with the queue. So be sure to subscribe to keep up with the story!


	21. Lida Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for it, look no further! [**Here's the link to the video!**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtn7KER4YgA)

**Your name is Karkat Vantas,** and you're not entirely sure that bringing Dave back to your house was a great idea. From what you can tell, he's having a shit time. At the very least, he's locked himself in his room and has refused to come out. Today, however, seems to be a different story. After you've woken up and changed into something that can be considered standard clothing, and hear a knock on your door. When you open it, you find yourself staring at Dave.

He fiddles anxiously with his cane, and his gaze is hidden behind his shades.

"You're awfully fucking quiet today," you say.

He turns away from you. His grip on his cane tightens, until his knuckles have turned an even paler white than usual, and he clears his throat. "I... I'm really sorry for... uh." He pauses. He taps his foot. "Sorry for kissing you. I wasn't thinking and I..."

"It was nice," you interject.

He freezes. "What?"

"It was nice. You're a good kisser. I could say this five thousand different fucking ways and it'll still go over your head, won't it?" To punctuate your statement, you fold your arms across your chest.

He continues to stare back, mouth agape. "I... I'm..."

"You're not gay, yeah," You say, rolling your eyes. "Of course you're not."

Dave bows his head. He presses his fists against his knees and sighs. "I... I'm sorry."

"You don't fucking need to be, you dense, overused sponge." At this point, it's taking remarkable amounts of self control to keep yourself from grabbing him by the shoulders. "Look, I liked it. Just fucking slamming your lips into mine like some sort of romance protagonist was a shady move, but by some strange god's grace it worked out for you."

A slow nod. After some thought, Dave seems to formulate a response. "You're a darn nice guy, Vantas. Damn. Fuckin'... You have the mouth of a sailor, but you're pretty damned soft underneath those umpteen layers of goddamned bullshit."

You offer a small smile. "If you want to, I guess we could fucking date. Whatever you want to do, just stop moping around like a goddamned blobfish."

Breathing a pensive sigh, Dave turns towards you. Of course, you can't see behind the shades, but you feel as if he's looking at you. "I don't see what sort of shit could come from it, but we can try."

"Well, then, let's start with some basic goddamned personal knowledge." You wander to your bed and sit down. With your legs folded and your back against the wal, you continue, "Bro is?"

"My legal guardian. He's a bit of a bastard. He doesn't give a shit about anything, least of all me." Dave shrugs, and his expression remains enigmatic. Nonetheless, he seems to believe that this is normal. "He ain't the nicest guy, but he'd give me days where he wasn't drunk. He'd play catch with me every now and then, usually with an old baseball he probably found in the dumpster."

"And he knew about your fucking weird magic?"

"Yeah, and he was damned pissed about it. He never figured out how to use his, so I'm sure seein' me do it was the last straw." Again, it seems that Dave is under the impression that this is normal. "He beat me senseless and locked me in my room after that."

"I'm beating the shit out of that cowardly piece of shit the next time I meet him," you growl. Normally, you disapprove of wantonly beating up strangers. This is real life, not some sort of strange video game. For Bro, however, you'll happily make an exception.

"He's not really worth it, and he can't exactly touch me if I'm not under his care."

"For all you know, you just jinxed it," you jest.

Dave snickers, though he doesn't smile. He stands alongside you, and leans his weight against your mattress. Without really thinking about it, he cups his hands together. A small orb of flame appears, hovering a few inches above his exposed skin, and he begins to mindlessly manipulate this as he speaks. "When I was younger, he told me he was training me. I'd ask what it was for, and he'd get all high and mighty and tell me it ain't something for kids to know."

"And you believed him?"

"Who else would I believe? I lived mostly alone and never really left the goddamned place."

You nod. You've never truly considered what Dave's home life was like, and you're beginning to see why. You're beginning to see how Dave became who he is, and you're not liking it. "Well, I'll kick that jackass to hell the next time I see him."

"The next time?" Dave quirks a brow. "As if you've met him once before?"

Your cheeks heat up, though the blush doesn't show. "You know what I mean. When I meet him, he better be fully equipped with the supplies necessary for survival after being thoroughly savaged and kicked to the Arctic regions of this shitty goddamned blue marble in space."

Dave, to your surprise, offers a thin smile. It's a hesitant gesture, and it remains for only the briefest of seconds, but it's a small victory. "Well, you're as goddamned colorful as ever."

* * *

Dried leafs rustle in the cool late afternoon breeze. In the distance, birds sing a cacophonous song. The air is brisk and dry, yet it's not quite cold enough to wear a scarf. Nonetheless, Dave wears a jacket. It's made of faded black leather and, to your interest, he seems to have embroidered things onto it. Various humorous sayings run up and down the sleeves, like tattoos of thread. Of these, your favorite is, "Blind man crossing, don't wave." His cane sweeps back and forth as always. sometimes catching on weeds. Nonetheless, he never loses his rhythm.

"So, your little brother..." you say.

Dave shrugs. "Last I heard, he was somewhere in Texas. Hopefully he's nowhere near Houston."

"Houston is where you lived?"

A nod. Dave folds his arms across his chest. By now, the two of you have come across a large boulder. He sits atop it, and you join him. "Bro lived in a high rise apartment in Houston. He was damned fuckin' pissed when I left, but I'm sure he won't be goin' anywhere to hunt him down. More than likely, he's looking for me. Either way, the first place he'd look is where we grew up. Spent my first few years there, and it was pretty decent."

You run your fingers through the moss beneath you. It's soft, yet dry, and the coloration isn't quite as green as most. In fact, it's a faded yellow, and patches of dark brown dot its surface.

Meanwhile, as if the lid has been opened on Pandora's Box of personal information, Dave continues. He, too, seems intrigued by the texture of the moss. His fingers touch it in a far more delicate way than yours, barely even touching the surface. "I've always wanted to be a sort of musician. Bro wasn't too happy about that. He said musicians ain't worth shit, and he told me I'd never make it anywhere. He said he wanted me to be a scientist, like him, and to make robots. 'Course, that was always Dirk's thing. The little man was better at it. Two working eyes are better for fine detail work."

"Well, you're good at making music," you say.

A smile, a rare glimpse at what's beneath the polished veneer of apathy, graces Dave's features. It's strange and a bit lopsided, but it's beautiful. "Well, that's nice to hear. Not sure how much it's worth coming from you."

"Hearing aids pick up music differently from natural hearing," you say. As you speak, you pull one from its place. You hand it to him, and watch as he rolls it over in his palm. "Especially with mid-range ones like these, it's a bit tinnier. There's some fucking feedback, but it's not like a goddamned Indie rock album."

A snicker. It seems that Dave is coming out of his shell. It's a slow process, but you're starting to see the beginnings of it. "Well, if it's good through that pass, then it's probably fuckin' sick without them."

You nod. Honestly, you're not one for music. However, you find that Dave's music captivates you. There's something visceral about it, and you're certain that _his_ music—what he writes for himself—has even more emotional depth. In fact... "So, I know you can mimic other people's music..."

Dave grins. It's more of a smirk, and there's a certain air of exaggerated confidence in his voice. "I can hammer out my own sick beats, of course. I merely use premade songs for their inherent value. It's easier to attract a crowd with something they know."

"That's fair," you agree. You watch as he absentmindedly begins to tap out a beat against the mossy stone. His fingers move in accordance with what appears to be standard guitar frets. He hums to himself, though the sound is scratchy and indiscernible to you. Still, you enjoy it. You revel in this time you have with him, and you soak up all that you can about the moment.

Filtering through the ever-shifting leaves of the dense foliage overhead, the sunlight hits his hair and makes it shine. It stands out against the dimly lit nature around you, like shimmering strands of golden-tinted silver. His fingers are long, yet they have a certain girth to them. They're not dainty, such as those of a pianist. His breath rises into the air, forming subtle clouds.

When he speaks, his voice touches something deep within you. It rouses an unknown passion, a sort of insatiable desire to hear more. It's warm and inviting, yet it has a strange air of experience and age to it. "Music is something I've always liked. It's fuckin' essential to my existence, dude. You understand?"

You nod. For you, writing is your passion. A life without access to a medium you can record your thoughts in is an unbearable concept to you. Visual art, too, is one of your loves. While you're not truly interested in discovering the subtle nuances of music, you can grasp its importance to Dave. "Usually, you open your mouth and spew a bunch of nonsensical shit, Strider. This time, though, you've got a fucking point."

"Clearly," Dave scoffs, though it's not mean-spirited, "This is the end times. Jesus is a-comin'." He pauses. He rubs his fingers against his chin, which now boasts an array of scraggly greyish blond hairs, "Jesus is comin', and _damn_ is he _fuckin' pissed _."__

____

____

You can't help but laugh. "He's pissed because you exist, Strider. You're throwing a fucking massive wrench into his inexorable wheel of destiny, or something like that."

This draws a laugh from Dave. It's a delightful sound, and it tickles your senses.

Of course, you'd be able to better capture it if... "Can I have my hearing aid back?"

Dave pauses. He looks down, and it seems he was unaware that he had been rolling it between his fingers for so long. A subtle flush colors his cheeks, standing against his seemingly desaturated skin. "Yeah. Sorry," he mutters, returning it to you.

You nod, replace the device, and smile. Silence surrounds you, yet it's not unbearable. In fact, it's not even uncomfortable. It's an amicable, natural lack of discussion. It's an atmosphere of relaxation, something you've never truly felt before, and it beckons you to simply enjoy the moment for what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, feedback, and pointing out the typos I missed because I didn't beta this at all are welcome!


	22. How do I Live Without You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one is a little shorter. I'm setting up for part one of the plot.

Break passes quickly. It's a flurry of activity and congratulations. Your parents tell you how nice Dave is, how he seems to be such a lovely boy.

Eventually, however, break ends. You've packed your things and Dave's meager belongings into the car. You've said farewell to your parents and, now, you're in the car. You're driving back to campus, and Dave is settled into the seat to your right.

The day is overcast and dark, and thunder rumbles in the distance. Perhaps due to this, Dave has removed his shades. His right eye is closed, and his left eye seems to be mostly closed. However, it remains open by a small amount. Every now and then, you notice it moving. The clouded, misshapen pupil shifts from side to side, though it doesn't seem to take in any information.

"So, you can't see anything?" you ask.

Dave shrugs. He chews on his lip and folds his arms across his chest. "Nope. It's a useless thing. I'd get it removed, but that's somethin' that costs money."

"You'd really get it removed?" As you reach a red light, you slow the car to a halt.

"People seem uncomfortable with it. I get comments about it sometimes." Again, Dave shrugs. He runs his fingers through his hair. "It's also a fuckin' pain. Literally. I hate it."

You nod. The light turns green, and you continue the journey. With practiced precision, you merge onto the nearby interstate. "And you can't drive?"

"No, I can drive. I'll just go by smell and swerve and crash my way through the streets," Dave responds sarcastically. He folds his hands behind his head. "I can't drive, no. It's a little annoying, especially since I like goin' places, but I can't do that by myself."

The traffic is sparse. You increase the speed of your car. "And..."

Dave sighs. He stares at the ceiling of your car, and it seems he's taken a liking to an oddly shaped coffee stain on the dull beige fabric.

* * *

Though the trip isn't long, you still decide to take a break. You pull into a nearby restaurant, which bills itself as an all-American diner. You enter, and Dave follows. You're both seated at a table by the front window and given menus.

After a bit of time for Dave to parse the menu with a magnification app on his phone, he orders a burger. You ask for a chicken salad sandwich.

Then, your attentions turn to him. You eye him over, studying his face. For some reason, you find yourself studying his misshapen left eye socket. Or, rather, you focus on the way his brow arches awkwardly. Your gaze is drawn along the bumpy line.

"Are you okay?" You ask.

Dave shrugs. When his mug of coffee arrives, he holds it between both of his hands. The steam rising from it rapidly decreases, as if he redirects the heat of his drink into his hands. "Perfectly fine," he hums.

Somehow, you don't believe him. There's something uncertain beneath those words, but you're not about to push it.

"My... um... My right eye has been bothering me," Dave admits. He punctuates the comment with a shrug, but continues to dance around the question. "It's nothing big. I have a visit scheduled with a local doctor."

"How long has this been happening, you stubborn bastard?" you ask, tempering your commentary with insincerity. Nonetheless, you're concerned.

"A few weeks. I've been getting it checked out, don't worry."

You open your mouth to say more, only to be silenced by the arrival of your dinner.

* * *

When you arrive at the dorm, Dave removes his shades. You note that he's reluctant to meet your gaze, but he acts fairly normal beyond this.

However, he remains distant. It's a far cry from the closeness you'd come to value over break. It's strangely quiet, and the silence between you and him is heavy.

"I'll be doing the usual broadcast of my show tomorrow," he comments, strumming seemingly random chords on his guitar. "You planning on listening?"

"I don't see why not," you say. "It's not as if I have much else to do on Monday evenings."

Dave offers a nervous smile. He sets aside his guitar, then turns to his desk. After flipping open his notebook and a nearby textbook, he begins to work on what you assume to be his homework. The scratching of a mechanical pencil fills the room, and you're left to wonder what is happening.

* * *

The Monday broadcast is more somber than usual. Dave lacks his usual spunk and, as if to add to your anxiety, his usual composure is all but gone. He speaks with uncertainty and pauses often, sometimes stuttering.

Amidst all of this, however, the most ominous of his comments comes at the end. "It's been great hosting this show, and I... I... It's been great. I've loved this opportunity and... and... Terezi will be taking over the show for the... For the foreseeable future, Terezi will host this show."

When he returns to the dorm, he remains silent. He doesn't answer your questions. In fact, he goes directly to bed.

* * *

When you wake on Tuesday, you expect Dave to be there. You expect him to greet you with a grin and a stupid comment. Instead, you find that his bed is empty. A sticky note is on the door, and it's marked by his usual, sloppy red handwriting. To your interest, it's more skewed than usual. The letters run together and they no longer sit in a straight line.

You can't read the whole note, but you're able to parse the basic message. He's gone to see a doctor, and he'll return later. Apparently, John is driving him.


	23. Saturn Devouring His Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unless you're okay with gore, don't google this image... in case the title hasn't already clued you in...

**Your name is Dave Strider,** and you're used to bad news. You're used to being the butt of fate. That's what life has taught you. Things always go awry, no matter your plans, and there's nothing you can do about it. But, life has never thrown you a curveball like this. You've never dealt with something that has completely rearranged your life, and you're not sure you know how to.

You sit in John's car and stare at the blurred shape of the ice cream sundae in your hands. Of course, John bought you something to cheer you up. And, honestly, it sort of works...

"You'll be fine, dude," John reassures you. "It's just an eye, right? And they'll get rid of that other one, too! You've always wanted that." He leans over the central console and wraps his arm around you. His usual grin is plastered across his face, but even you can feel the uncertainty. It's palpable. It's heavy. It weighs against you like stones crushing an accused witch.

The words do nothing to calm you. In fact, you find that they only increase the anxiety. "John, you're my best bro. I know you're trying to help, but I ain't exactly jumpin' for joy about them taking both of my eyes out."

"Well, how long has the right one been bothering you?" John asks, tilting his head to the side.

You sigh. "Yeah, I know it was fuckin' my fault. I should've had it checked sooner, but I didn't."

"Can't change that," John shrugs.

You let forth a groan of frustration. You truly appreciate John as a friend, but he's not the best person to talk to in the event of something like... this.

"How much did you use your vision, anyhow?" John asks.

Another groan. You slide your shades up and rub your eyes. "A lot, actually. It's a pretty fuckin' essential sense."

"Oh." John's smile fades. It's replaced by a frown.

You, in return, pull out your phone. There are precious few people you feel comfortable in confiding in, but you know of one...

* * *

"That was a fucking great note you left, Strider. What the actual fuck was that!?" Though his words are harsh and his loud voice is being blasted straight to your ears by your headphones, you're more than happy to hear his voice. There's something strangely charming about his unrestrained emotional nature. "And that goddamned radio broadcast! What does that even mean!?"

"I... I..." You've always had a habit of stuttering when you're nervous. You've always hated it. "What's up?"

A pause. From Karkat's side comes a long, concerned sigh. "What's wrong?"

"They... The doctors... The... My eye is fucked. The right one. The left one has been fucked, but it's... Apparently, it's an uh..." You trail off and lock your eyes on the floor. "There's a tumor, or that's what they're saying, and it's gotten fuckin' big." A nervous laugh escapes you. "Like, it's like a fuckin' Airheads. It's out of fuckin' control."

"Oh." Karkat's voice is surprisingly small. It's too soft. "I'm sorry."

"I mean... it ain't the end of the world. I don't have that much vision left, anyhow, so..." You find yourself gripping your phone tightly. Your hands shake, as does your voice. "It's just sucky, y'know?"

"That's fair," Karkat sighs. "You don't deserve it, though..."

"It's not exactly about deserving..." You mutter. "But, yeah, I get the shortest end of the stick all the fuckin' time. My sticks are so short they'd envy a grain of fuckin' rice."

From Karkat, there comes an understanding hum. "When is this happening?"

"Tomorrow morning. They're sayin' it needs out as soon as possible." You stare out the window, though you see little more than a field of green and a spacious expanse of blue. "John will drive me, and I... Well, I guess I'll stay on campus. Not that I have anywhere else to go." You punctuate this with a nervous laugh.

The car lurches to a halt. You stumble out, into the parking lot, and lean against John's car as you continue the conversation. "I'm... I should be able to do most everything after the second day, but I shouldn't really. I'm withdrawing, and I'll go back to my apartment. It's not too far from campus, so..."

"You could stay in the dorm," Karkat says.

You groan. "I mean... I shouldn't, but..."

"I'll handle things if the need arises, but they wouldn't just kick you off campus. Especially if you've got no fucking place to go."

"Yeah..." You sigh.

You can hear Karkat shifting around. "Well, I'll be happy to help you out. I mean, we're fucking dating. It'd be really shitty of me to just tell you to fuck off."

"It's not like this is a common thing, but... All these pamphlets keep tellin' me to use my good eye, and I won't fuckin' have one. It's kind of rude, ain't it?" By now, you're grasping at straws. You're rushing back to the dorm, determined not to let any emotion show in public. "I... it'll be real weird not being able to see shit, but I guess it ain't the worst that could happen. I... I could be dead."

By now, you've reached the dorm building. You rush in, up the stairs, and stagger to your room.

When you enter, you're surprised to feel someone grab your hand. You're pulled forwards, into a hug, and the distinctive smell of Karkat surrounds you. His thick, soft hair brushes against your face. His grip is strong, yet not uncomfortably so.

The sensation is strange to you. Bro never touched you, except to harm you. Only John has ever hugged you, and that was purely platonic. Now, however, you feel a certain energy—an overwhelming love permeates the air. For perhaps the first time in your life, you feel completely safe. You feel as if nothing can harm you, and that there are people out there willing to have your back no matter the cost.


	24. Beauty and the Beast (Phantom's Theme)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to make more chapters after Phantom of the Paradise songs but that was a lie. [**Here's the song!**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLkSu5JatyQ)

**Your name is Karkat Vantas,** and you've just finished getting the room ready. You've moved your bed to the top bunk and set up the bottom for Dave. You've cleared off the floor and rearranged Dave's desk to create a more simplistic setup. (He'd told you what to do over the phone, just a few hours before the surgery.) Now, you wait for him. You wait, and you leap to your feet as soon as you hear a knock at the door. When you open it, you find Dave leaning against John. The height difference is staggering (literally, as John seems uncomfortable supporting Dave), and both you and John exchange bemused smirks.

Dave, meanwhile, appears fine. He's stubbornly insisted on wearing his shades, though the bandages over his eyes are still visible. He enters the room and mutters something under his breath. His words are indiscernible. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handful of painkillers, and downs them without water. The action bothers you, but you say nothing. You assume he's not in the mood for a lecture.

"The doctors said you did really well, Dave. Perfect patient," John says. His arms are crossed, and he leans his shoulder against the doorframe.

Dave replies with a huff. He sets aside his cane and presses his hand against the nearest bedpost. His brows furrow, and a grunt of discomfort escapes him. "I was unconscious. Probably because plucking out someone's goddamned eyes is fuckin' traumatic." He sits down on the bed and removes his shades, revealing the bandages fully. It's a strange sight, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't at all unnerved.

"You're feeling fine, dude?" John asks.

Dave shrugs. He feels around on the bed, finds the edge of the covers, and pulls them down. "I'm uncomfortable as hell, and I've got a headache, but yeah. I fuckin' guess." He drops onto the bed and sighs. "Thanks for the ride, John."

John nods. He offers a two-finger salute, then departs.

You, meanwhile, sit at the end of his bed. "So... you're feeling fine besides getting your goddamned eyes ripped out, right? I mean... That's a fucking stupid question, but you're okay outside of the expected shitshow?" You begin to wring your hands together and avoid looking at Dave. Now, you're aware that he isn't able to see you. Still, you feel as if he doesn't want you staring at him.

And, to your surprise, Dave replies with a small smirk. A short laugh escapes him, though he quickly returns to his usual expression of apathy. "You don't know how much you fuckin' look at shit until you can't look at it, dude." He pushes himself into a sitting position and pulls the pillows up to act as a backrest. "Yeah, I guess I'm fine. It's fuckin' weird... What time is it? Where the hell am I?"

"It's October 28th, and it's about 5:00 PM." You report this information with an air of faux formality, and maintain the over-the-top impression as you continue, "Would you desire some form of diversion?"

A smile flashes across Dave's face, but it seems he's regressed. He returns quickly to his shell, and shrugs. "Besides fuckin' listening to you? My laptop and rig might be interesting."

"I got Sollux to set it up with audio cues," you say, retrieving the devices. "I hope you've got some sort of fucking freakish fetish for monotonous robot voices." As you speak, you watch Dave.

He fumbles with the wire, scraping it against the side of the keyboard until it fits into its proper spot. He repeats the process with his turntables. When it's all set up, he begins working. Some music plays, though you don't immediately recognize it, and his fingers move across the various sliders and dials. While he once kept his gaze locked on his laptop, he now keeps his head down, as if he refuses to look in your direction. However, he seems to be as confident and capable as before. Presumably, he's memorized where the controls are. The music fades in and out, crossing between songs with precision and grace.

"How the hell does any of that even work?" you eventually ask.

Dave pauses. He tilts his head to the side, then scoots over. "Sit down and I'll show you," he says, nodding to the spot beside him.

You do as you're told. Once you've settled in, Dave reaches out. His hand finds your arm, then travels down, and gently grips your hand. He sets this atop the array of knobs and offers you a nervous smile. "I'm not sure how you'd do this, since you can see it, but this is how I do it." He sets you up so that your fingers each rest against a different knob or dial. Then, he instructs you. Sliding your index finger performs one function, and moving your thumb does something different. It's an ingenious way to juggle the various functions without extensive visual input, and you find yourself calmed by the repetition.

The sounds you produce are crude. They're nowhere near as refined and complex as what Dave can do, but he seems happy with it. In fact, you even catch a glimpse of a wide smile.

* * *

Thursday marks the first snowfall of the year. It's an unexpected event, and the sheer amount is overwhelming. The deepest point on campus appears to be a solid foot, and it goes without saying that classes are cancelled. The ground is plagued by patches of ice, and the air is bitterly, uncharacteristically cold. (Of course it would be. It snowed.) You assume that the conditions aren't ideal for any sort of outing for a person who's just undergone a fairly serious surgery.

Dave, however, insists otherwise. He's convinced you to let him go out. And, now, he walks at your side. His hand grips your arm, and his cane sweeps back and forth ahead of him. You've learned to time your steps to avoid overlapping the cane's path. He's opted to not wear his shades, citing the discomfort they caused him with the bandages on. His head is uncovered, but the rest of him is bundled in a thick red jacket.

The two of you meet Rose, Kanaya, and John at the campus' fountain plaza. An array of snowmen already litter the area, looking like some sort of disorganized army, and other students are too busy flinging snowballs to pay much attention to anything else. Nonetheless, a few eyes are drawn towards Dave. The stares are quickly diverted, however, when you glare back.

"Fuckin' freezin' my balls off out here," Dave mutters, his breath forming thick clouds against the frigid air. Though he wears a pair of gloves, he still rubs his hands together. "It's still October, ain't it?"

"Put on a hat, you stubborn idiot," Rose huffs.

Dave shrugs. A faint hint of a smile is on his face, and you can imagine the spark that would've been in his eyes. "It's fine. Are we building this thing?"

"Yes, of course." Kanaya offers a mischievous smile. She unfurls a piece of paper and sets it down in the snow. On it, she's drawn a crude depiction of the snow sculpture the group is planning on creating. It's a spin on the standard snow dick: a snow boob. "Dave, are you feeling well enough to be engaging in this activity?"

"Of course he is!" John quips. "This was his idea, after all!"

"I'd be damned before I abandon my brainchild," Dave announces. He stumbles slightly as his foot hits a patch of ice, but is able to steady himself against you. "I won't be as much help as I could've been, but I'm pretty sure I can handle making a nice nipple."

Rose snickers, though you can tell this is a stifled reaction. She covers her mouth and rolls her eyes. "Well, then, Dave, go ahead."

A nod. Dave leans down, picks up some snow, and begins to pack it together in his hands. He rolls it around, shaping it slowly, and sits down on a nearby bench.

You, meanwhile, begin helping the rest of the group with the snow dome. This will form the base of the icy sculpture. "This is so fucking stupidly juvenile," you huff. Though you try and make yourself sound above the idea, it seems that the act fools no one.

John responds with a laugh. "You know this will be the funniest thing that's happened on this boring campus in decades!"

Dave nods, presumably in agreement. He pauses his sculpting for a moment and lets forth a huff.

You leave behind your work to approach him. From your pocket, you pull a bottle of Advil. You dump out a few, then hand it to him alongside a bottle of water.

He downs both eagerly.

* * *

"It's absolutely beautiful," John says, his voice filled with faux awe.

Rose and Kanaya merely snicker. Both remain as poised as always, though it seems that Kanaya is having a harder time keeping her laughter in check.

You must admit that what you've created is amusing. The nipple Dave made has been set in place, and your group has thus succeeded in crafting a massive snow boob in the center of campus. You're sure that it will be destroyed quickly, so you're sure to snap a photo.

Behind you, Dave is oddly silent. The joy he'd exhibited earlier, just moments before, is gone. Now, he seems pensive and, perhaps, a bit sad. When you turn to look at him, he cocks his head to the side. "I'm guessin' it's good."

"It's round and perky, if that's what you're asking, my dear cousin," Rose interjects.

This manages to draw a snicker from Dave, but his expression remains the same. His lips are pressed together, forming a line of conflicted indifference. He reaches out and grabs onto your arm. His cane is held vertically, so that it can't possibly hit the snow boob. He leans his weight against you, and it's apparent that he's getting tired. You can't blame him for it, and you're certain he's been out for far longer than he should've been. "I'll take your word for it, Rose."

"You want to go back?" you ask.

Dave nods.

You lead him back to the dorm.

There, he quickly discards his extra layers of clothing. Now, clad only in an undershirt and a pair of black boxers, he stumbles to the bed. He drops into it, bundles himself amidst the covers, and swiftly falls asleep.


	25. Take it Easy [!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an Eagles song, [**Here's a link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeDUBxEVDXM)!

It's November, specifically the tenth. It's been three weeks since Dave's surgery, and he's healed well. Time has passed rapidly, between assignments and increasing pressure from classes. At least, it's gone quickly for you; obviously, you can't speak for Dave. Though he's grown more open with you, he's withdrawn from his social life. His otherwise outgoing personality has faded slightly, though you're hoping that this recent development will help. From what you understand, today is the day Dave was scheduled to receive a pair of prosthetic eyes.

This morning, John took Dave to the ocularist. Rose followed, as John had to return to campus for classes. So, today, Rose is bringing him back. You're meeting him at the central fountain plaza, and you're as anxious as ever to see him. From what you understand, he's ordered that they be red. Apparently, he's not going for realism. (If anything, you're sure it will make him seem like even more of a strange, otherworldly anime character.)

Ten minutes ago, you got a text from Dave. They'd be arriving soon.

And, now, you can see them. To your surprise, he isn't wearing his shades. instead, they rest atop his head, nestled amidst his hair like an unsightly bird. As he nears, you get your first glimpse of him. The eyes are, as you'd expected, his favorite shade of candy apple red. They've fallen slightly out of line, and the left strays a bit further upwards than the right. Nonetheless, they're remarkably realistic. Frankly, the only indication that they're not is their coloration. Otherwise, one could easily assume he just had one hell of a lazy eye. He follows alongside Rose, though he doesn't hold onto her. In fact, over the past few weeks, he's regained most of his navigational confidence.

"Well, shit. You look like an even bigger douchebag than before. Truly, this is a remarkable feat. In fact, it might be the final seal needed to unleash the apocalypse upon this hapless world." As you speak, you step forward. You study Dave's face, and the lack of movement of his eyes is startling. You're aware that there are multiple factors to this, but it's still a change from what you're accustomed to.

As you think, Dave responds. A smirk spreads across his face, and he looks like the perfect emulation of a smug anime villain. The way he runs his fingers through his hair as he sits down beside you only heightens the effect. He wedges his cane between the seat and table of the round metal picnic table and folds his arms across his chest. "That's not nice, now, pal. How's it really look? I'm trying to figure out if I should drop these sick shades back down."

You roll your eyes. Though you don't often offer completely sincere responses, you make an exception for him. "You look great. I'm sure you'll be the new fuckmagnet on campus. Everyone will be battering down our door to get inside and get a load of your godawful face."

"Really?" Dave pauses. He blinks. "I mean... I'd think it'd make me look weird as hell."

"Admittedly, you look fine, Dave. In fact, you might even pass for normal," says Rose. By now, she's returned from the campus burger place. She sits down, taking the spot across from you, and begins to unwrap her meal. From what you know about her, you assume it's her usual: a standard burger, topped with guacamole and mushrooms. "Now, the color is strange."

"It's a warning. People might think I can see if I just had some boring-ass normal color. We sure as fuck can't have that, Rose." At this point, Dave turns towards you. He continues, "You really think it looks fine?"

"How many times are you going to ask me that!?" you bristle. "You look fine. I'd even go so far as to say you look marginally attractive."

A nod. Dave takes his shades from his head and begins to fiddle with them. For a brief moment, you can see him smile. There's the faintest hint of dimples, though they disappear as quickly as they came. There's a series of quiet clicks as he folds the shades' arms, then stuffs them into his red flannel shirt's breast pocket. "So, you like them? You want to gaze deeply into these fuckin' fake eyes?"

"That sounds like a fucking outrageous waste of time," you huff. Though you try and keep your voice even, you can't help but let a bit of a laugh through. In spite of your own words, you can't help but stare at them. They lack a certain depth—a quality you can't explain—but they're remarkably lifelike. Beyond this, you're in favor of Dave without his shades. You love being able to see his face.

"This is getting incredibly gay—" Rose begins.

"Says my dearest lesbian cousin," Dave interjects, smirking.

You can't help but laugh. And, it seems Rose is equally amused, though she offers little more than a short snicker.

"Whatever the case, I feel the need to dismiss myself. Dave's enlightening commentary has also reminded me that I must go back to my dorm and smother my girlfriend in incredibly gay, lesbian-tinted kisses." Now, with her half-unwrapped burger in hand, Rose rises to her feet. She departs from the table, offering a small wave.

Naturally, you and Dave return to your discussion.

Dave is the first to speak after the brief interruption. "Well, while you've been earning your degree, I've been working on some more music. These beats are sicker than Europe during the plague, and they've got beats so solid they're the opposite of vague." He waggles his brows humorously, though you're sure he's dying for you to listen to his creations. "It's likely I might be back on the radio broadcast next week, too. I'll need some help, though..." A facetious pout punctuates this statement, and it remains on his face as he continues, "I'm not as familiar with the setup there, so..."

"Of fucking course I'll help you, Strider." You roll your eyes.

This response is met with a wild grin. He reaches out, stops when his fingers brush against your hand, and intertwines his fingers with yours.

Naturally, you respond with a hum of intrigue.

His cheeks burn a bright pink. He diverts his gaze, and the motion makes you realize that the left eye moves slower than the right. "Is... Is this okay? I mean... I'm not... I don't... I don't want to make you uncomfortable." He begins to pull his hand away.

You cling to it. "You're fine, you anxious fuck."

Later, after the sun has set, Dave approaches you. He asks you to walk with him. Apparently, he's been tasked with getting out more than he has been. "I need to get used to navigating without residual vision," he explained. "It's fuckin' wild to think that I'd be so dependent on my shittiest sense, but I was. I barely know where I am half the time."

Naturally, you agreed.

Now, you walk alongside him. You watch how he navigates, taking particular interest in how fluid his motions are. He's always in step, and his rhythm is never disturbed. Even when he stumbles, he resumes on beat. By now, in the dark, he's removed his prosthetic eyes. They now float in a glass of water in your room. However, he isn't wearing his shades. Instead, he keeps his eyes closed. Nonetheless, he's as frustratingly attractive as ever.

"So, you're not supposed to wear them all the time?" you ask, burying your hands in your pockets. A stiff, cold wind whistles past you.

Dave nods. Both you and him jump slightly as a metallic clang rings out, though both of you know the cause is his cane hitting the post of nearby stop sign. "No. At the very least, I should take them out when I'm sleeping. Besides, they ain't the most comfortable things. Kinda like when you first get braces, I guess. Or, at least, that's according to John.

"So, what's it like?" You know it's not the most polite question, and you've always hated when people ask you, but you sense that Dave is more open about his life than you are. Or, perhaps, he's more accepting of his own problems. You've never liked considering yourself as a person with hearing problems. Yes, your hearing is almost nonexistent without your hearing aids, but you were raised in a hearing world. Besides that, a pair of hearing aids are much easier to hide than a white cane.

Dave, not to your surprise, shrugs. He chews on his lips. "It's not that different. Lack of any sort of vision is fuckin' me up in terms of time, but it's otherwise the same. Finding people and figuring out exactly where you are is a little harder, though..." He pauses, pulls a cigarette from his pocket, and places it between his lips. With a snap of his fingers, he lights it, breathes in, and exhales a plume of smoke from his nostrils. "I mean... It sucks. I loved whatever shitty vision I had, and it's kind of bullshit that I won't see anything. Never. 'You wanted to see the cherry blossoms or the crisp colors of autumn? Ay! No, fuck you!' That's what life is sayin' to me. It's not something I can control, though, so I'm just doing what I always do. I'm avoiding thinking about it and moving on."

You nod. The words resonate with you, though not in a "hashtag same" sort of way. Rather, they make you reconsider your life. You find yourself considering how reluctant you've been to accept your own shortcomings, and it's strange. A short temper is something you adopted as a means of avoiding criticism and degradation. Now, though, you wonder if it's worth it. Do you really need to bite everyone's head off?

"Shit!" A clang. Dave comes to a sudden halt. He kneels down, sliding his left hand down the length of his cane, which has lodged itself between the slats of a street drain. His right hand presses against the ground and grips the end of the cane, which he carefully wiggles from its entrapment. It comes loose quickly, and he rises to his feet. Nonetheless, he looks disgruntled. "See, that would've been easier if I could still see."

"Really? It's dark out."

"Fuck!" Dave groans. He pulls up his sleeve and runs his fingers over his odd wristwatch. "Shit. You're fuckin' right. I hate it when you're right. My sense of time has been fucked to hell and back, and it's absolute fuckin' shit. God." He stumbles slightly, tripping on an uneven sidewalk slab. "I probably can't do half of what I used to do. I mean, I can, but it'll take longer. It'll be a lot harder. Like, it used to be as easy as eating some fuckin' soup. Now, I'm stabbing at that goddamned bowl with a fork." As another cold wind passes, he shivers. He pulls his relatively thin sweatshirt closer to himself.

As you're already wearing three layers, you're compelled to remove your jacket. You throw it over his shoulders.

He offers an appreciative nod. "You're a solid dude, Karkat."

"And what the actual fuck is that supposed to mean?" you ask, barely holding back a snicker.

"It means you're a good guy. Underneath that shouty, loud exterior, you're pretty nice. I might even venture to say that I like you."

"I'd fucking hope you like me, you bone-headed ass-sniffer. We're _dating_." You roll your eyes and gently nudge his shoulder. Though you antagonize him, the comment gives rise to a warm, fuzzy feeling deep within you. In fact, you might even say that you're flattered. Not that you'd ever tell him. You'd never let him know that his compliment got to you; that would only inflate his already bulbous ego. You do, however, offer him a response of a similar value. "For being the biggest goddamned tool on the face of this repulsive water-logged planet, you're a pretty cool guy."

As you expected, a smile starts to spread across his features.

You add to your statement, "Don't let it go to your head."

"You're fuckin' right," Dave says, nodding solemnly. Despite his otherwise serious air, his conclusion is anything but. "I'll channel it in the opposite direction." His ability to keep a straight face never fails to amaze you.

And, in reply, you can't help but laugh. "God fucking dammit, Strider, just take a compliment like a fucking normal person." For all the banter you throw back and forth, you like to think that the two of you have a bond. There's some connection between you and him and, though you can't speak for him, you _can_ say that yours is firmly based on a mix of admiration and insincerity. He's someone you can be sincere with, and you like to think that he feels the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and as usual, [**here's a link for the art!**](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/166504434034/just-another-quick-sketch)


	26. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Here's the song!**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDOL7iY8kfo) It's by Elton John!

He stands outside of the dorm building's front entrance. He wears a pair of black jeans and a dark brown hoodie, one he presumably took from your wardrobe. (After all, he seems to only own a hoard of red and white baseball shirts.) His shoulder leans against one of the two stone pillars, while he absentmindedly twirls his folded cane between his fingers. His brows are furrowed, and, perhaps due to new set of eyes, he blinks constantly. The cold air has turned his nose red, though he seems to enjoy the heat from his smoldering tobacco stick. Obviously, he doesn't see you approaching, but he seems to hear you. His eyes turn in the direction of your footsteps.

"Strider," you call to him.

Dave looks up. He runs his fingers through his hair and quirks his brow. The red glow at the end of his cigarette pulsates gently, casting a soft light across his face. "Karkat. You're back early from class."

You nod. With your books held against your chest, you approach him. By now, you're used to shooing the smoke from his cigarette out of your face. "You're up early."

"It's hard to tell time when all you see is fuckin' black," Dave shrugs. His words are delivered with pure apathy, but you can tell that he's frustrated. As he turns his face, you see a fairly sizable scab on his cheek. You're opening your mouth to ask when he continues, his voice harsher than usual, "It's also hard as fuck to shave. I mean... It should be easy, but I just..." A low, guttural growl escapes him. "I can shave. I can fuckin' shave, it's just... Annoying. It's just me, rubbing my goddamned hands all over my face to figure out where I haven't touched yet."

Again, you nod. You lean against the opposite side of the pillar, though you angle yourself so that you're able to see Dave. At around this point, you left hearing aid announces that it has a low battery. Since this isn't the side Dave is on, you feel perfectly comfortable taking it off. After slipping it into your jacket pocket, you turn your attentions to your boyfriend. "Your outfit is... interesting..."

He frowns. His right eye turns to you, and the left trails behind. It takes a few seconds for the latter eye to catch up. "What am I wearing?"

"Honest answer?"

"Brutally honest."

You sigh. "Dark brown hoodie, black pants. Pretty fucking sure you just stole that top right out of my drawer." You try to temper your statement with your addition.

He, however, responds by plucking his cigarette from his mouth. He throws it down, grinds it against the cement, and groans. "Jesus. Fuck. You're saying I can't even dress myself?" He pushes away from the pillar and unfolds his cane. He heads inside, walking at a fairly brisk pace. You follow, and he leads you back to your dorm. There, he drops into his desk chair. He pulls off the hoodie he's wearing and casts it aside. Now, you notice that his undershirt is on inside out. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, then pops out his prosthetics. He throws them into the designated cup.

"How about we use our fucking words?" you say, sitting down in your own chair. You roll it towards Dave, piloting it with your feet. "Come on, Strider, don't keep your mouth shut now. You let it flap like some wild fucking bird all the time, dammit!"

To your surprise, Dave looks at you. He's put his shades on, and he offers you a brief smirk. "Look, buddy, I can handle my own problems. I..." His voice trails off, quickly dropping below audible levels. Then, he shakes his head. "There's this thing my brother used to tell me... He told me that I wasn't the worst thing that could happen in the world, but I'm the worst that could happen to his world. I ain't stupid, though. I knew what he meant. But..."

"But?"

"Nothing." Dave waves his hands in the air, as if trying to shoo something away, and turns away from you. He taps his fingers against his turntables. "It's bullshit," he mutters. "I'm the fuckin' worst Dungeons and Dragons player. Every roll I make, it comes up a big, glaring one!"

"Well, you've got looks," you say, trying your best to lighten the mood.

And, to your surprise, it works. He smiles. "Well, that's flattering to hear. The bastard with shit hearing and the douchebag with no eyes. It's fuckin' weird that we ended up together, ain't it?"

You nod. You reach your hand out and grab his. As usual, it's rough, and the callouses form a pattern consistent with the handle of a sword. It's larger than yours, yet it fits perfectly. It's warm and, as you hold it, it grows warmer. "We're a fucked up pair."

"Well, you've got a nice voice. That closes the gap, doesn't it? You can't hear, and I can't see. Put both of us together, and you've got... You've got somethin'," he shrugs.

* * *

As the day fades, and the sun gives way to the dark night sky, you find the room's temperature dropping. You're unable to control the exact settings for your room, but you _can_ file complaints with residence life. Not that this has done anything; your resident assistant refuses to move the thermostat.

Dave, however, seems to have a solution. "Come down here, idiot," he says.

You pause. You climb down from your bunk and stand before him, head cocked to the side. "That sounds incredibly gay."

"It is." Dave lifts the covers. He nods to the space, then smirks. "Get in, you fuckin' lump."

A long sigh escapes you, but you comply. You slide between his sheets, which are rough compared to yours, and into the space he's made. His body is incredibly warm, as you'd expect it to be, seeing as he's a fire magician. His body is soft, and his grasp on you is neither too loose nor too tight. You could easily wiggle free, though you don't want to. In fact, you like it. You like the feeling of his thumb as it strokes your shoulder. You savor the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck. And, as you begin to fall asleep, you hear his voice.

"You're damned cute," he mutters.

* * *

On November 12th, you return to your dorm after your classes. It's empty, and a note from Dave indicates that he's left for a walk. This doesn't surprise you. He's the sort of person who needs to be by himself from time to time. He's taken walks around the nearby walking path, which winds its way through scenic woods, many times. He's even done so after his surgery. It's nothing startling, and you consider it to be of little interest.

You do, however, begin to grow suspicious as the hours pass. At most, his outings last two hours.

The golden hues of the afternoon fade, replaced by the darkness of night. You know it doesn't matter to Dave, but it matters to you. He should be back by now. You've sent him countless texts, demanding to know where he is. They began simply enough. "Where the fuck are you?" It's probably not the ideal calm message, but it's your version of calm. Then, they escalate. By now, they're frantic.

You've called Rose. "I haven't a clue where he could be."

You tried John, who ultimately muttered to you that you were interrupting an episode of some show on Netflix, but quickly added that he "hoped Dave was doing well."

Kanaya. Terezi. Sollux. No one has seen or heard from him.

Finally, as the clock strikes 8:00 PM, you gather your things. You throw on your jacket, grab a flashlight, and stuff a can of pepper spray into your pocket. (You've never been a fighter. Your family instilled in you a deep-set disdain for physical violence, and you're certainly not the strongest person, but you can at least try and defend yourself.) Now, armed as heavily as you possibly can be, you set off. You wander through campus, but find no sign of him. You check every conceivable building. Then, you begin to leave the college. You turn on the flashlight and begin down the walking trail.

"If this is your idea of a joke, I'm not fucking amused, Strider," you call into the darkness, but get no reply. You push further into the thick foliage. Leafs, recently soaked by rains, squelch beneath your feet. "STRIDER!"

Your watch informs you that it's now 10:00 PM.

"DAMMIT, DAVE!" Your calls are swept away by wind.

Then, an answer. Leaves rustle.

You turn about, shining your flashlight wildly until it falls on Dave's trademark red Converse. The beam travels upwards, until it falls upon your roommate. His back is against the base of a towering pine tree, his nose is bloodied, and a sizable tear runs down the arm of his black overcoat. Dried blood coats the frayed edges of the fabric, and he turns towards you when he hears noise. He snaps his fingers, and a jet of flame hurtles towards you.

Naturally, you dive out of the way. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" you exclaim, now pressed against wet mulch and leafs. You're certain you're a sight to behold, now covered in mud and cowering, with your hands over your head. "Dave, it's me! I've been worrying myself to fucking death looking for you."

"Oh." The voice is small, and it's barely audible above the whistling wind. In fact, you're not entirely sure it's his voice. For all you know, it was feedback. What follows, however, is definitely him. "I ain't really worth worrying about, dude. I just... slipped. Um..." He holds something close to his chest, and you come to realize it's the broken fragments of his cane. "It's nothing. Just help me up and get me back to the dorm."

"Yeah, I'm sure slipping a little could rip your arm open like a cheap tin can," you huff. Despite your suspicion, you comply. You reach out, grab his hand, and allow him to pull himself up. "Jesus fuck, you're just accident after accident, aren't you?"

"You've noticed the trend." Dave bows his head and grabs onto your upper arm. Though he doesn't have a functioning cane, he seems to instinctively ready himself to use it. After a few seconds, however, he buries his free hand in his pocket. "We don't need to tell anyone 'bout this, okay?"

You let forth a disgruntled huff. "Sure, but you should at least tell me what the fuck conspired here."

Dave makes a pointed effort to avoid your gaze. He turns away, and his grip on our arm tightens. The warmth emanating from his hand grows more intense, and you assume it's due to his emotions. "He found me again. Said somethin' about how I ruined his life. Gave him a criminal record and all that fun shit. I could tap dance around his abuse for fuckin' years, but it ain't worth it. The low and dirty version of it is that Bro demanded I come back home with him. He grabbed me, and I told him to fuck off."

You nod. A sick feeling begins to stir in your stomach. Though you know it's not your fault, and it certainly isn't your duty, you feel as if you've failed him. "Well, he's gone."

"He's not," Dave mutters.

You object. "He's gone now, and I'll beat the living shit out of him if he comes back." Though you know you can't fight, you manage to sound confident. You speak with conviction, and do your best to reassure Dave that everything is alright. "For now, let's get you back to the dorm. I've got some bandages for your arm."

"Awesome," he yawns, then leans his weight against you. His distinct scent, cigarette smoke mingling with alcohol, fills your nose. Now, though, it's not unpleasant. In fact, there's something oddly pleasant about it, now...


	27. Through the Fire and Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a DragonForce song, and you can [**listen to it here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jgrCKhxE1s)!

The overhead fans in the burger-based restaurant squeak periodically, though rarely all at once. The lights are dimmed, the temperature pleasant, and the red-and-yellow color scheme oddly inviting. And, amidst all of this, there's Rose. She sits across from you, clad in a black sweatshirt and a vivid pink skirt. Today, her lips are coated with what you recognize as some of Kanaya's jade green lipstick.

Kanaya sits beside her. She's as gorgeous as ever, and it seems she's stolen Rose's black lipstick for the day. She engages in conversation with Rose, though it's too loud for you to hear what she's saying. The situation would probably be a lot easier if you'd learned more sign language, but you can't exactly fix the past. For now, you're content with not knowing what they're saying.

For now, you focus on Dave. His shades are on and, from the side, you can see that his eyes are closed. It seems that this is their natural state when he doesn't have the prostheses in. He's busy fiddling with a wad of kneaded erasers, which he apparently found at the bottom of his backpack. Right now, it appears to you that he's making an attempt at sculpting a crude penis. Naturally, you feel a need to put an end to this; you're in public.

You clear your throat. When he turns towards you, you speak up. "So... If this is a double date, what in the name of all that's supposedly divine and holy on this godforsaken space rock are we supposed to be doing?"

Dave shrugs. He pockets his creation. "Well, there's always... something."

"That's profound. I'm amazed you were able to formulate such a deep, complex answer." Your words are thick with sarcasm.

Naturally, Dave picks up on this. He smirks, shrugs, and throws his arm over your shoulder. "My man, I don't know half the shit that leaves my gapin' maw."

A snort of laughter precedes your reply. "I can fucking tell."

"Well, we could always discuss the issue of Bro," he says. He removes his arm from you and offers a somber glance. His brows are furrowed, and his lips are curved into a small frown. "Look, we've got to look this shit in the eyes. There's no fuckin' way around it, right? He's kind of a shitty thorn in the lion's paw."

You nod.

He continues, "I'm far more comfortable with him finding me than I am with him finding Dirk..."

"Karkat!" Kanaya's voice rises above the crowd's cacophony. When you look to her, she smiles. "You and Dave seem to be getting along well. That's a real change of heart from the beginning of the year."

You shrug. Though you have a feeling you're missing something important from Dave, you let the conversation deviate. The four of you begin discussing various things, from daily life to assignments.

Eventually, the food arrives. Everything is going well until a nearby table begins fighting. It's subtle at first. Then, it begins to escalate. They start yelling. Before management can escort them out, one of the disgruntled diners smashes a plate. Everyone, it seems, freezes. However, after a few seconds, Dave doesn't. He stares forwards, with his brows knit together.

"Strider?" you ask.

He doesn't respond. In fact, he utters something under his breath and gets up. He swiftly departs, and disappears into the bathroom.

You, meanwhile, look to Rose for guidance.

"You should probably follow him," she says. "This seems fairly standard for him, especially in situations that remind him of Bro."

You nod. Without any further delay, you spring to your feet. You head into the bathroom, and enter as quietly as you can. The plain blue tile is the perfect environment for echoes, and you believe that you can hear the sound of his breathing. However, echoes confuse you; this isn't the best operating environment for your hearing aids.

Beneath the second stall, you see his telltale red shoes. You knock on the door. "Strider?"

No response.

"Rose sent me in here. She probably wanted to make sure you were okay, but I'm sure she wouldn't come in here. Hell, I wouldn't come in here normally. It's kind of shitty."

A huff of agreement.

Encouraged by this, you continue, "I'm not sure why you air-headed idiots thought that bringing me to a burger place was a good idea. I don't eat cow, remember? That's kind of a fucking big deal."

Another huff.

"Well, the mac and cheese is decent. That's a plus..." Now, you pause. You lean your back against his stall door. It opens outwards, and you'll know when he's trying to leave. "I don't know why I don't eat cow. I pretty much dropped the other traditions like lava. So, it's fucking weird that I still don't eat cow or steak..."

Dave responds to you, though you can't hear him well enough to know what he said.

Nonetheless, you keep going. "You know, Strider, I was scared shitless this morning when I woke up. There I am, tired and still lost in a haze of goddamned semi-consciousness, when I went to take a drink from a glass of water. I picked that shit up, and there were two motherfucking eyes staring at me from it."

A quiet snicker.

This continues for some time. You say something, and he offers a meager reply. You're uncertain of how much of a help you're being, but you feel as if he appreciates your effort. At the very least, when he emerges from the stall, he grabs you and pulls you into a surprisingly tight hug. He whispers something into your ear, but you don't quite catch it. You think it was good.

* * *

Back in the room, Dave lays on the lower bunk. He bounces a rubber ball off the bottom of your bunk, and hums to himself. You can't tell what the tune is, nor do you have so much as an inkling of an idea of what it might be.

"We found out about my magic pretty fast." Dave speaks up suddenly, startling you. "Bro and I would spar, and I released a fuckin' burst of flame from my fingers one day. He was fuckin' floored, but more pissed. Said somethin' about how I stole his power. See, our family has a knack for magic. And he never did find out how to activate his..."

Now distracted from your homework, you nod. You fold your arms across your chest and turn your chair to face him. You know it doesn't make a difference, but it feels strange to not do so.

He continues, "Well, I managed to figure out how to pack a real punch with some of this shit. I might have gotten sliced and hacked to fuckin' hell and back, but he got burned. It was a useful skill, too, since I could cauterize wounds."

"Sounds like a whole assload of pain," you mutter.

Dave shrugs. "It's better than bleedin' to death. Anyhow, I used magic to keep Dirk safe. Never did get to figure out what his magic was, though..."

"It's probably easy to find him," you say. Spurred on by your own commentary, you pull up Facebook. You type in the name, and come up with a handful of results. They all seem irrelevant, save for a particular profile of some smug-looking teenager with an uncannily similar face to Dave's. There's the same prominent jaw and sharp facial angles. He has the same light, soft hair, though his is golden blond. His skin is tanner, but there's no denying that he's related to Dave. You read the information that's public. "Dirk Strider, lives in Newport News, Virginia. Currently dating Jake English..."

"Hm..." Dave is less than convinced. You don't blame him. The chances of locating your lost brother shouldn't be so high; you shouldn't have found him so easily. Still, he stops tossing the ball around. "Send him a message and tell him it's his brother, Dave."


	28. Nocturne of Amnestris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's from FMA:B. [**Here's the link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ap2hT1VmYI)! The song referenced in the chapter is [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C35DrtPlUbc)!

It's around 11:00 AM when you come across it. A tattered, red three-ring binder tumbles from its precarious position atop Dave's pile of CD's. It falls open and, when you go to retrieve it, you can't help but look at its contents. Inside, you see old photos. They seem to be Polaroids, the sort that print out immediately, and they're slotted into page after page of clear pockets.

Dave is away. John took him to the hospital for a routine checkup. You're aware that, even though you're dating him, it's rude to snoop through this things. Nonetheless, you can't help it. Something draws you in, and you can't stop flipping the pages.

Most of them have generic images. They're meaningless to you, though they hold an aesthetic appeal. A majority are slightly out of focus, though you can tell what they are. A tree, beneath which there's an old wooden bench. Some birds congregate around a muddy puddle. These are mostly irrelevant to your interests. However, you find a few interesting photos. A few feature a young child. His hair is blond, like Dave's, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of stupid, pointy anime shades. In one, he's dressed as some obscure cartoon character, and a pumpkin-shaped bucket is eagerly clutched in his hands. In another, the shades are gone, revealing a pair of chestnut brown eyes. He leans against a tree and, despite his obviously too-young-to-be-doing-it age, he's smoking a cigarette. Other photos show a younger Dave. He sits on the edge of the flat roof of a high rise building, looks out a relatively small window, and leans against the plain grey walls of a stairwell.

There's a sense of intrusiveness to the affair. Your heart races. With each picture of Dave, or of the child you believe to be Dirk, you flip through the pages faster. However, there aren't any more. Instead, the pages suddenly run dry. At least half of the binder is empty. Your adrenaline subsides, and you quietly set the book back onto his shelf.

* * *

On November 15th, at 5:00 PM, your computer lets forth a startling alert noise. You can't exactly describe it, but you know it's from Facebook. Your natural instinct is to groan, clamber down the bunk bed's ladder, and hunch over the dimly lit screen. There, you see a surprising notification: "Dirk Strider has responded to your message!"

Hey! This is Dirk, obviously. I'm not exactly sure I trust your claim, as your name doesn't say 'Dave Strider,' although it appears you're dating him. I'm leery of any semi-anonymous attempts to contact me, given my past experiences, such as Emotional Trauma 2: Ultimate Electric Boogaloo, but will still give you a chance. Your claim intrigues me, as I've spent the past year looking for my brother. If your claims are as fucking solid as you purport they are, they'll stand up to the ultimate off-the-chart earthquake of the century.

Before we were separated, Dave offered me his usual brand of kickass advice. Let me know what it was, and I'll cough up some information.

The first thing you notice about Dirk is that he is _definitely_ a Strider. He has the same odd attitude, though he seems to have a more Lalonde-like vocabulary.

Naturally, the second thing you notice is that Dave has returned from his walk. Or, rather, you don't really _notice_ this; he's been back for quite a while. Instead, you recognize it. You take the opportunity to fill him in on the recent development. "Your brother replied. That fucker is definitely your little brother, at least. He might even be a bigger tool than you, and that's saying something!"

Dave, from where he's sprawled out in bed, looks towards you. He quirks his brow and smirks. "Well, then, call me a fuckin' surprised as hell bastard."

"He's not talking, though," you begin.

Dave cuts you off. "He wants to know what I told him before we were rudely separated. Yeah, the kid's smart as shit. _'Oe o muite arukou.'_ " He announces the latter segment of his statement with little fanfare. The words are clearly not English, though you recognize them as Japanese.

Naturally, you feel the need to comment, "Fucking weeb," you huff.

A smirk and shrug. "It's an old Japanese song about some depressed fuck, and he walks around looking up, so he doesn't cry. It's fuckin' weird, but it's nice. We found it on an old record in Bro's room, and made it our secret anthem."

You, after sending what you're certain was a massive bastardization of the phrase, nod. While you appreciate the sentiment, you're not about to pass up a chance to take a jab at Dave Strider. A smirk spreads across your face. "So, you're both weebs."

Another shrug. The edges of Dave's lips turn upwards, forming a small, thoughtful smile. "Yeah, pretty much."

Your computer alerts you to another reply.

上を向いて歩こう  
Okay. That's fucking solid. You pass. I'll cough up anything you want to know. Name anything, any strange, useless fact from the depths of my inherently fucked personal life that you'd like to know about.

"We've been approved by the runner-up for planet's biggest, most pretentious douchefuck!" you announce.

Now, Dave pauses. He runs his fingers through his hair and breathes a long sigh. His foot taps against one of the bedposts. "With Bro on my trail, I'm not going to ask where he is. That's just fuckin' begging for a whole goddamned assload of trouble. Nah, let's keep this nice and simple. How is that annoying little shit?"

You send Dave's inquiry, and receive a quick reply.

I'm doing as well as I can be, considering the absolute clusterfuck that this situation is. I'm amazed we haven't sold our stories to Hallmark Channel, because those assholes would have an absolute field day picking apart all of our problems. While we're at it, we can pick up the phone and hit up Dr. Phil. He'd probably be ass-over-balls to get his no-longer-certified hands on our godforsaken brains.

After reading Dirk's reply, you catch a glimpse of one of those rare smiles on Dave's face. He laughs, and the sound sends a pleasant tingle down your spine. Then, to your surprise, your computer rings again. "He wants to video chat, is that agreeable to you, lord jackass?" you ask.

Dave nods, though you note that he slips his shades back on before getting up. He retrieves his own desk chair, rolls it to your side of the room, and nods for you to begin the chat.

Dirk appears as he had in the photos. Freckles dot his slightly tanned face, though they're focused across the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. His hair is swept upwards, out of his face, and he wears a plain, black, sleeveless top. His jawline resembles Dave's, though his chin is a bit sharper. He leans in, studies his screen closely, and smirks. "Well, shoot me dead and dangle me from the window of a shitty Parisian house, you're alive!" There's a softness to his voice that isn't present in Dave's, and he has less of an accent.

Dave smiles, though you sense something beneath the gesture. There's an uneasiness about him, and you haven't seen it in a while. Nonetheless, when he replies, his voice is as even as ever. "Yeah, I am. And fuck you, too, kid, because you ain't selling me out to Dr. Phil. I'll sell you to Oprah first!"

Dirk shakes his head. His mouth moves as if he's tutting, though you can't hear it. "At least I'd be able to _watch_ myself on television, you absolute prick."

A nervous hum of agreement. Dave wrings his hands together, though he does so out of view of the camera. "You've got me there, dude. So, no sign of the big bastard?"

"I haven't seen hide, tail, or hideous glasses. He's long gone, and I say, 'Good fucking riddance, you scum of the goddamned earth.'" Dirk laughs.

Dave does, too, though you can sense the anxiety. "Well, he's been on my ass lately, so I probably shouldn't keep this goin' too much longer. You never know what sort of batshit stunt he'll pull next, right?"

Dirk nods. A brief glimmer of a smile shows, though it's subdued. He reminds you of the Dave you originally met, an aloof, tries-too-hard-to-be-masculine type. "Well, then, I won't be sticking around to get tracked. It's been nice catching up, though, and I'll keep in touch!"

Another uncertain laugh. "Yeah, l'il dude. I'll catch you around."

The call ends, and Dave immediately turns to you. His brows are knit together, and his ambiguous expression has been replaced by one of pure distress. "How did he look? I mean... He's a... He's a Strider, so he looked fine as hell, but... He... Was he okay? Is the family he's with keeping him fed?" He chews on his bottom lip and continues to wring his hands together. "Damn... I could've figured all this out for myself a few weeks ago. Fuckin'..."

"He's fine," you reassure him. You put a hand on his shoulder and offer a gentle squeeze. "He looks fucking great. Clean, well-fed, and happy. Or, at least, he looks about as happy as a Strider could look without crossing the invisible line of toxic masculinity..."

A quiet snicker escapes Dave, though he still appears upset. He turns his face away from you. "As much as my vision sucked, it... I wish I could at least see him, you know?"

"Not really, but I get where you're coming from."

Dave shrugs your hand off your shoulder. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and begins to twirl it between his fingers. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, dude, you don't know how much you look at shit until you can't. And... He doesn't know. Dirk's got no fuckin' clue what's happened to me, and I ain't entirely sure I want him to."

"Why not?" you ask.

Another shrug. Dave sets aside the cigarette. He holds his left palm in front of him, and a small flame appears above it. His right hand comes up, above the flickering fire, and he shapes it into a ball. He continues to do this, rolling it between his hands like some sort of odd stress toy. "I've always been the bigger guy. I mean, yeah, we traded off. He'd cover my ass sometimes, and I'd cover his. But, I was the older brother. I was the only goddamned thing between him and that fuckin' bastard, and I'm..." He bows his head. The ball of flame suddenly dissipates. "I'm not that..."

"You stood up to Bro in the woods, Strider," you say, your voice both stern and comforting. "Look, you could probably kick my ass in less than a minute. You're a fucking terrifying dude, and I'd hate to be someone who underestimates you in a fight. You've just got to find a new way to work with things. I mean... I really can't help, but..." Now, you pause. A thought crosses your mind, and you can feel your lips turning upwards, into a smirk. "I know who _can_ , and you know who can."

"Terezi!" Dave exclaims.

Though you instinctively nod, you add a verbal cue for his benefit. "You hit that like the last nail on Bro's coffin."

A cocky grin crosses Dave's features. "That jackass won't know what hit him. He'll be running goddamned circles around himself, asking where in any sort of fuckin' hell I'm coming from."

"Exactly! I'd try the legal way to solve a dispute, though. As much as I'd pay to watch any dumpster-diving ass beat Bro to a pulp, it's better to keep yourself on the right side of the jail cell," you point out.

A nod from Dave tells you that your input has been acknowledged. Then, with a gracious but unexpected kiss on the cheek, he rises from his seat. "I'm going to go hit TZ up for some dank ass-kicking tips. Catch you later, dude," he says, as he leaves the room.


	29. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From _Tommy_ , [**Here's the usual link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ah66Jji74Tk)! This chapter was posted at, like, 1AM, so it's not beta'ed. Let me know if you see any glaring errors, and thanks for reading!

Thanksgiving break is approaching like a speeding bullet. It's not exactly a holiday that you're particularly invested in, as your family doesn't celebrate it. This isn't some sort of conscientious objector thing, either; your family just doesn't feel the need to go through with the decorum required for the occasion. There's still a week left, though. Of course, time flies when you're buried underneath a pile of busywork and looming assignment due dates. Seven days quickly gets whittled down to six, then to five. Four. Three...

Two.

In two days, break begins. In two days, you'll be saying goodbye to Dave for the first time in months. You offered to take him back to your house, as you had last break. You'd even offered to drive him out to see Dirk, but he refused both proposals. With his usual, stupid cool kid facade in place, he'd given you an answer. "I have things I need to take care of back home. I ain't looking for a fight, but I suppose I'll have to pick one if I must." He'd shrugged, then said nothing more about the matter. You've tried multiple times to get him to say more, but he refuses. He dances around the topic, like an Irish dancer doing a lively jig around a table of drunken, vomit-covered college students.

You've stopped asking.

Now, you lay in bed beside him. You stare at the underside of your bunk, wondering how all of this has snowballed into the present situation, and sigh. For reasons known only to him, he mirrors your actions.

"Bro never was the best guy to put in charge of kids," he says. "He was a real big shot in the porn industry, actually. His ass was plastered all over the seedier bits of the web more than any other conventionally attractive white male. He made a nice living doing it, too, considering the goddamned penthouse. But, a good porn star ain't the same as a good parent. He smacked Dirk and I around like his own personal indentured punchin' bags..." As he speaks, he spins the midsection of the ring on his left middle finger. You note that he's been doing this more and more as break draws nearer.

By now, he's been silent long enough for you to assume you can talk. "That sounds like some fucking obvious information. Ground control to Dave Strider, the man with his goddamned head in the fucking upper reaches of our atmosphere, that's the most obvious thing I've ever heard."

"Maybe." An enigmatic shrug punctuates his statement. The inner edges of his brows come together, and his mouth forms a small frown. "The point is that he hated me, but he was real damn fond of Dirk. I never figured out why, but he had some sort of fuckin' creepy attachment with my brother. He bugged his school bag and did all other kinds of off-the-fuckin'-wall dubious shit. After I got Dirk taken away, he went absolutely ballistic. I'm talking the biggest caliber you can find at the most absurdly high-end gun store. He was _not_ pleased."

"None of this is making me any calmer, dumbass," you grumble.

Dave snickers, though his expression shows no trace of happiness. "I have to get rid of him somehow, and I'm pretty fuckin' sure I know how to. The problem with it is that it has to be me, and only me. You can't be involved. I won't let you be involved, in fuckin' fact, because you'd just make the thing more complicated than the most lawless game of Mouse Trap."

"I guess that's fair..."

"It's fair as fuck. It's fairer than trading five dollars for another five dollar bill. This shit ain't your territory, and I'm not sure it's even mine, actually. But I'm going to entrench myself balls deep in this godawful slog of emotional trauma, so there's not much you can do to stop me, right?" Now, Dave smirks. He quirks his brows playfully, and elbows you in the side.

For the briefest of moments, you feel calm. You feel as if everything might be fine.

Perhaps, Dave's brother has come to realize that he's lost. Dave is, after all, his own very capable adult self. He can make his own choices and beat the living shit out of the consequences. Then again...

"And if things don't go as fucking flawlessly as you think? Nothing is as easy as anyone proposes it'll be, you know. That whole, 'Walk into the battlefield and just politely ask everyone to stop shooting each other' shit is just that. It's shit."

"I don't see your point," Dave says, his smirk growing.

A huff of frustration escapes you. "Dammit, Dave, you don't see anything!"

"Exactly my point," Dave hums. He runs his fingers through your hair, pats you on the shoulder, and rolls over. "Now, go to fuckin' sleep. It's late."

You sigh. You want to keep talking to Dave, but you know you can't. He's done for the night, and it's useless to continue pestering him. You remove your hearing aids, extract yourself from the lower bunk, and climb to the upper one. While you and Dave have slept together a small handful of times, you still don't feel completely comfortable doing so.

* * *

One.

Tomorrow, break begins. Once classes are over, everyone is free to return home. Dave will take a bus to the inner city, where he lives, and you'll be powerless to do anything to help. Your role will be downgraded to distant emotional support. (Well, technically, not _that_ distant. You could easily drive to his house, city traffic be damned, but...)

You look at him. His face is still exactly as it has been. It's longer and more rectangular than yours, and the lines are more pronounced. His eyes are more or less aligned, though the left is vaguely off center. He leans his elbows on the wooden picnic table and laughs at John's joke, but you're not really paying much attention to what's being said. At least, you're not until...

"Karkat! You look like you're dying," Dave says. "Liven up! Tomorrow is break!" He hands you a Styrofoam cup. Steam rises from a small hole in the plastic lid, and you can smell hot chocolate. "John got us all drinks. He knows you ain't a fan of coffee, so he hopes this'll do."

"Yeah... Thanks..." You're aware that your voice is unusually soft. Your posture is more withdrawn, with your shoulders hunched and your back slouched. Nonetheless, you play along with them. You take a sip of the beverage, and the sweetness provides a bit of comfort. "So, Egbert, what sort of mind-numbingly trivial bullshit are you doing over the long weekend?"

John shrugs. He adjusts his glasses and stares upwards, towards the chirping birds on the power line overhead. "The usual Thanksgiving shit, I guess. The whole family will come over, and I'll help Dad get dinner ready. What about you?"

"Vantases don't celebrate Thanksgiving."

"Neither do Striders," Dave volunteers.

Though you're fine with your family opting out of the holiday, something about the way Dave says his reply sends a shiver down your spine. Still, you try and keep the carefree atmosphere going. "What about Rose and Kanaya?"

This time, Dave answers the question. John, as it is, seems clueless about the topic. "They're going to Rose's for Thanksgiving, and Rose'll go to Kanaya's for Christmas. It's a fair arrangement, I guess."

"Yeah..." You fold your arms across your chest. As you look at the birds, a single crow swoops down. The smaller songbirds disperse.

* * *

Zero.

No more days. No more waiting. You've driven Dave to the nearest bus stop, which lays about fifteen minutes away from campus. It's in front of a busy shopping center, so parking isn't an issue.

You sit beside him. The metal bench is hard, cold, and uncomfortable. It doesn't yield, nor does it ever seem to grow warmer. In fact, the air immediately surrounding Dave is slightly colder than the already cool late autumn breeze. People surround you, bustling noisily to and fro, yet you feel as though the world has been whittled down to you and him.

He toys with his cane, spinning it between his fingers, and stares at the ground. His eyes are clearly misaligned, though they're hidden behind his shades. "I don't give a fuck what I look like. I'll look like shit when Bro is finished, anyhow," he had said as he got ready. A single backpack is over his shoulder, in which he's managed to fit some clothes and his notebook. This is all he carries. He's entrusted you with his wallet, and given you his computer.

"So..." you say, trying to start a conversation.

Dave answers too sharply, too quickly. "I ain't scared. I'm fuckin' ready for this shit. I want it done," he snaps. His grip on his cane tightens, and his knuckles grow even paler than they usually are. His closes his eyes, breathes in, then exhales. From his pocket, he produces a cigarette. He lights it with a snap of his fingers. For several minutes, he silently inhales the toxic smoke, then breathes it out. Then, he speaks, "If something happens, don't tell Dirk."

"What—?" You begin to respond.

"Don't tell Dirk," Dave says, his voice firm. "If something happens, don't tell him. Wait until the year is over."

You nod. Though you feel the need to say something like, 'that's not going to happen,' you can't. In your gut, you know you can't. You can't tell the future, you can only wish for it to be kind. You can't change what will happen, but you can live with the results. "Got it." It's all you can say.

Silence.

The air is tense. Every second seems like an hour. Yet, eventually, the bus arrives. You check with him to be sure, but he confirms your fears: this is his bus. You pull him into a tight hug, inhale his scent, and do your best to commit it to memory. It's still the same smoky, stereotypically masculine aroma as it always has been, but hints of Indian spices and French vanilla have worked their way in. "Stay safe, you stubborn shitbrain," you mutter.

He wraps his arms around you. "I will, jackass." For a few moments, he allows the moment to remain as it is. He's safe, in your arms, and happy. His body is warm, as is the air around the two of you. Then, it ends. He gently pushes you away, and the air turns cold. "I'll see you in a few days."

"Yeah..." You watch him board the bus, and stare at him through the window. Waving is pointless, but you feel the need to do so, anyhow, as the vehicle departs. "I'll see you in a few days..." By the time the words leave your mouth, the bus is long gone. It's turned the corner and disappeared amidst a sea of concrete and utilitarian architecture. "I'll see you in a few days," you repeat. You return to your car and sit down, though your eyes linger on the plastic bag in the passenger seat. You know what's in it, because you put his laptop and wallet into it yourself.

You turn the key, and the car rumbles to life. The drive home is quiet. You don't turn on the radio, as he isn't there to listen to it. You don't speak, because there's no one to speak to. A crushing loneliness weighs upon you, and it begins to press against you like the walls of a shrinking room.


	30. Santa Trinita Maestà (Cimabue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER WARNINGS: BRO. Bro is here, and he's about to get nasty with those slurs. Canon-standard violence, I guess. Not quite that bad.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Santa Trinita Maestà is a tempera painting from the late 13th century. [**You can read more about it here**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Trinita_Maest%C3%A0)!

**Your name is Dave Strider,** and the smell of the penthouse apartment hits you in the face like a ton of bricks in a bag made of lead. Alcohol, weed, and cigarette smoke. The odors linger and mingle, and they assault your senses as nothing that Karkat has ever could. Your head begins to ache.

Footsteps echo down a narrow hallway. They're heavy and uneven; the gap between them is wrong and without reason. A slurred, familiar voice greets you. "So, the faggot decided to come home for a change? You know how goddamned hard it is to get anything done around here, and you go off and put us in even more debt."

A rough, calloused hand slaps you across the face. Your shades skid across the floor, and you stumble back.

A huff of smug realization. "You're even more useless now than when you left." Bro offers a loud, hoarse laugh.

A fist slams into your stomach. You instinctively double over, and a knee hits your face when you do. You stagger back, run into the wall, and groan. Warm, sticky blood begins to leak from your nose. Your cane is gone, and you can only assume that Bro has it.

"So, you still can't fight? I have no use for you, kid." A hand grabs the front of your shirt, and you're pulled forward. When he speaks, his breath reeks of vodka. "Go back to college and nail that goddamned bastard you're so damned in love with, why don't you?"

You cock your head to the side. "And you still seem to assume I won't report you for what you did to me?"

Bro huffs. He releases you from his grasp and backs away. His footsteps recede, fade, and end with the sound of a slammed door.

* * *

Though it's almost winter, the air in the apartment is warm. It's always warm. Bro never keeps the thermostat at a reasonable temperature. When you're a massive smudge on the face of the earth with more money than decency, you can afford to do whatever you want.

The television in the living room blasts away, its volume unreasonably high. Not that Bro is necessarily watching what's one; he rarely watches the television, yet he never turns the volume down. You recognize the words. He's watching _Cannibal Holocaust_ again. This realization occurs in tandem with another: you can hear footsteps. They approach your door, then stop. Something slams against the wooden portal. The footsteps recede.

You know what this means.

You have little time to do anything beyond pulling on some clothes. You step into the hallway. Then, you follow your usual route. You go outside of the apartment, and into the hallway. Turn left, go up the stairs, and emerge onto the roof. In nothing but your pajamas and a tattered sweatshirt, the already cool air turns to freezing. You can regulate your temperature with precision, though, thanks to your magic. Not that it matters. No matter how warm you are, the air will always be cold. It quickly numbs your fingers. Your face stings, and your eyes water.

Gravel rolls about underfoot. Bro approaches from your left. "I never wanted you, kid," he huffs. He's obviously drunk, and his movements are slow. When the sounds are indicative of him shifting his weight, you sidestep. He falls to the ground with a cacophonous thud. "Oh, you think you're fucking clever, don't you?"

Somewhere nearby, a crow caws. It's enough to distract you, and that break in your attention is ample time for Bro to lunge. You're quickly pinned to the ground. Your shades are gone, and the front of your shirt is in his grasp.

He stands, pulls you up, and dangles you in the air by the front of your sweatshirt. "I could end all of this right now. I could get rid of every goddamned problem I've ever had in my life, you know." You can hear the smirk in his voice, and you can picture it in your head. The vision makes your stomach churn, and you do your best to replace it with one of Karkat. (Right now, you assume that he's back at his house. His family is blissfully unaware of your situation, and that's how you'd like it to stay.) You feel yourself moving, and you know that he's taking you somewhere. Not long after this realization, you hear the rushing traffic beneath you.

Your heart pounds in your chest. Dying here isn't part of your plan, and it would be a massive pain in multiple respects. So, you take a risk. You offer a calm smile and raise your hands in the air. You surrender. "That's perfectly fair, dude."

A pause. Bro's grip on your sweatshirt tightens. "What? You're too much of a pussy to fight back, now?"

"No, but I _am_ a legal adult. I can report you for..."

"Child abuse doesn't work any more."

You nod. "True. But you're doing plenty more than that, y'know. I know your drug dealers, for one thing..." You brace yourself. If this works, you'll be back on solid ground soon. If it doesn't, then...

"Hmph."

You're thrown backwards, and you end up skidding across the ground like an out of control vehicle. Your palms are embedded with tiny pebbles, and you can already feel blood seeping through the knees of your pants. This will all be a messy thing to deal with later, but, for now, you're alive. Your racing heart slows.

"Okay, what the fuck do you want?" your father demands.

You shrug. "Not much. Just an agreement." When he doesn't respond, you keep going. Slowly, you rise from the ground. You can feel heat licking at the tips of your fingers. A distinct hum rings in your ears. You're edging on losing control of yourself. If you don't solve this now, you'll have much bigger problems. So, you push ahead. "I won't report you if you leave Dirk alone."

"Just Dirk?" Bro laughs, though it's more of a cackle. He approaches you and presses against your chest, only to recoil. "JESUS! God, fuck you, you goddamned freak."

You assume that he burned himself. It doesn't matter to you. "Just Dirk. It might be fuckin' wise of you to keep your hands off of me, though. But, you can do what you damn well please. Just stay away from Karkat and Dirk."

"Ah, now, you're adding conditions." The way he's speaking to you seems indicative of a literal finger-wagging. There's a haughty, greater-than-thou air to his voice, and it only serves to make your tempers rise faster. He knows what he's doing, at least; if you lose control, you'll both be in some deep shit. "This is doable, but less reasonable."

A low growl escapes you. "Look, just don't mess with my friends. Don't touch Dirk. You do that, and you can keep your stupid drugs. I won't report you to the police, and everything will be fuckin' peachy."

A prolonged silence precedes his reply. "You're asking a lot, but I'll agree. But, if you break your side of this exchange for no reason, you bet your ass that I'll be coming for you." He walks forwards, shoving you aside as he passes, and goes back inside.

You, meanwhile, breathe a sigh of relief. Your mind clears, and the prickling of the building energy in your body fades. You turn, then sweep your foot in an arch in front of you. Bro still has your cane, and this is the best you can do for now. You manage to navigate the small flight of stairs from the roof to the apartment, and enter. Though you can hear Dirk on the phone in the living room, you rush past him. You go back into your room and lock the door.

* * *

You lay in your bed and hold your phone tightly. It's the last lifeline to the outside world that you have, and you're not about to let it go without a fight. You have a pair of headphones plugged in, and you're currently exchanging texts with Karkat. Though the voice reading his messages is robotic and cold, you do your best to reconstruct _his_ voice. You imbue the words with the over-the-top expression and emotion you've come to associate with him, and you find a small smile spreading across your face.

It's nice to hear that you're safe, Strider, but that doesn't mean my helicopter parent texting will stop. I'm going to bother the living shit out of you until you're begging for virtual death, dammit! Or... at least... until you come back from break.

Naturally, you respond to his text. You dictate your message, though you're sure to do so in a voice that's little more than a whisper.

Cool your goddamned tits off and chill Karkat everything is finer than the most smoothest grain sandpaper in fact it might actually be plain paper.

You continue to speak, but your words make absolutely no sense, you absolute fucknozzle. It's late, and I need to go to bed. Good night.

You respond to him with a series of nonsensical emojis, and punctuate it with a heart. Then, you bury your phone under your pillow. You roll over in bed, press your back to the wall, and do your best to fall asleep.


	31. Rainbow Connection

**Your name is Karkat Vantas.** On November 30 th, you return to the dorm at noon. Classes begin tomorrow, but you’re not exactly interested in that. You’re more focused on making sure Dave is okay. Though he diligently responded to your texts throughout break, he’s stopped lately. Your phone has been eerily silent for the past few hours. The last message is from 3:00 PM, and that’s (obviously) from yesterday. The message assured you that he’d be back by 5:00 PM today.

Time passes. 1:00 goes by without any word from Dave. 2:00. Nothing. 3:00 is similarly silent.

Then, at 3:00, you hear it. A steady, rhythmic tapping. The door opens, and you finally see him. His face is covered in bruises, and both of his palms are buried beneath a thick layer of bandaging. Through fresh tears on the knees of his pants, you can see even more bandaging. Tape holds the bridge of his shades together.

Hes obviously injured, but he’s alive, and you embrace him eagerly. “You fucking idiot, I’ve been worrying myself to death. You’ve shaved a solid five years off of my life.”

”Nice to see you, too,” he snickers. He returns your hug. “Everything is resolved with Bro. At least, we’re safe for now.”

You pull away and eye him over. As he removes his jacket, you see an array of scrapes running up and down both forearms. They’ve scabbed over, though they still look raw.

”’For now’ doesn’t seem like any reasonable semblance of certainty, jackass, but I guess we’ll fucking take what we get.” You smile at the end of this statement, though you’re aware he can’t see it.

* * *

"Dirk lives a pretty fair distance away," Dave mentions. He toys with his cane and stares at the underside of your bunk. The room briefly lights up, illuminated by the headlights of a passing car, then it goes dark. Not to your surprise, he doesn't notice this.

You, meanwhile, spin around in your desk chair. It's not the most productive use of your time, but it's not the worst thing you could be doing, either. "Yeah, I thought we established that."

"Did we?" Dave frowns.

You sigh. Without really thinking about it, you let your hands wander. Eventually, you find yourself playing with one of his kneaded erasers. "I'm guessing you'd like to see him?"

"That ain't technically possible, now, is it?" Dave smirks. He waggles his brows, providing the most over-the-top ridiculous display you've ever seen, and snickers. "Yeah, it'd be neat to meet up with him, if that's what you're implying. That _is_ what you're implying, right?"

You nod and stretch the eraser in your hands out. The thin, light grey insides don't match the coloration of the outside, though you suppose charcoal has coated the soft, gooey outer layer. "What's he like? I mean... He seems a lot like you. An absolute tool, and I'm amazed two douchebags as big as you and him can exist without unsettling the delicate balance of our universe."

A laugh. A smile. Your gaze shifts, and you soak in the rare sight. "He's a smart little shit, first of all... And he's got more luck in the genes department. Unlike me, he got damned perfect everything. Vision, skin, hair. I'd probably be more pissed about it if I could see better, but I figure it's not worth losing sleep over, right?"

A shrug precedes your statement. You rest your feet on top of your desk and cross your legs. "Well, I'm dating _you_ , not your brother, so you've got something going on in the looks department. Someone at the appearance mall is on the intercom, fucking shrieking into the PA system that there's some rogue model."

Dave holds his index finger upright. He moves it in a circle, indicating that he is or would be rolling his eyes. "Don't try flattering me in the middle of my story, dude. Now, where was I? Oh... Yeah. He's pretty much me, but if I wasn't fucked right up the ass by genetics. All that is why Bro likes him better."

"Hm." You fold your arms across your chest. "Well, Christmas is coming up..."

"Yeah?" Dave quirks his brow. "And?"

At this point, you realize that your idea might just be feasible. In fact, you find yourself biting your tongue. Of course, you've gotten him interested, but the idea is just so good... "Nothing," you say, quickly. "Forget about it."

As you expect, Dave whines. "Aw, dammit, dude, you can't just hook me like some shit-brained tuna and leave me hanging like that. I'm floppin' around on the dock, Karkat, I'm fuckin' flopping like it's nobody's business."

His comment draws a snicker from you, though you still refuse to tell him your idea. You will when Christmas draws nearer, but, for now... "Don't sweat it, Strider."

* * *

On the last day of November, you attend your usual Monday classes. You’ve agreed to escort Dave to the office of student life so he can resume his role as the host of his radio show.

However, by the time you’re out of classes, you find yourself besieged by a treasure trove of unanswered texts. Rose has contacted you multiple times, and her messages are ominous. Though she assures you that everything is alright, she implores that you come to her room. Apparently, Dave had a mild fall.

Naturally, you obey this command. You arrive showrtly after classes let out, and find your boyfriend sitting on Rose’s bed. His hands are wrapped in newer, yet still bloody, bandages. A nervous smile is spread across his face.

”I leave you alone for five minutes,” you begin.

Dave shrugs. He leans his back against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. “It was just two fuckin’ steps.”

”Regardless, that’s a decent fumble on pure concrete, Dave,” Rose responds. She pours some rubbing alcohol onto a rag and presses it against a cut on the side of Dave’s face. He doesn’t recoil, but he doesn’t seem happy about it, either. Still, she continues, “Karkat, what do you think?”

”I’m considering putting some training wheels on you, Strider. You’re getting to be more goddamned trouble than you’re worth.” You pause, then sigh. “I’m kidding. Come here, you clumsy idiot.” You sit beside him and inspect his wounds.

He, meanwhile, waggles his brows at you. “So, my knight in irritable armor has arrived! Fuckin’ finally! You’re several minutes past the guaranteed pizza delivery time, sir.”

Though you do your best to suppress the urge, you can’t help but laugh. The smirk on his face stirs an odd warmth within you. The tips of your fingers feel as if they’re sparking. In the back of your mind, there’s an almost electric hum. “You’re an absolutely irredeemable fuckall nerd, aren’t you?”

”I neither deny nor confirm your suspicion, dude,” Dave shrugs. He leans against you.

The warmth grows. The tingling increases. You feel as if you should tell someone, but the sensation is too pleasant to stop. Whereas you’d report chest pain, you’re less inclined to report a vague sense of energetic happiness... “You don’t need to open your goddamned mouth, Strider, we all know you’re a fucking nerd.”

Again, he shrugs. His hair brushes against your face. He intertwines his fingers with yours.

Your emotions swell, A muffled crack sounds in the back of your mind, and your fingers begin to glow. A gentle, pulsating red light dances about your hands, and you stare at it with a mixture of awe and fear.

”Karkat!” Rose’s voice is filled with excitement. She rushes towards you. “Karkat! That’s it! You’ve unlocked your power!!”

You quirk your brow. It sounds like some sort of fairy tale to you, but you know it’s real. “And what the absolute fuck do I do with it?”

”Test it on someone!” Dave exclaims. A grin is spread across his face. “I’ll volunteer.”

You’re not entirely sold on using your boyfriend as a Guinea pig, but you suppose you don’t have an option. The stubborn bastard will just keep insisting.

You untangle your hand from his grip and press the tips of your fingers to his chest. A faint glow surrounds him and, shortly thereafter, a low hum fills the room. His wounds heal, knitting back together like torn flesh in some outrageous science fiction movie.

Though he can’t see it happening, Dave feels it. His grin grows wider, becoming bigger than you’ve ever seen it before. “YOU’RE A FUCKIN’ HEALER!!!” He grabs you by the shoulders, and he pulls you into an eager embrace. “I’d say I don’t believe my eyes, but we all know I’d just be shitting around. This is fuckin’...”

”This is unique! I’ve never seen a healer before!” Rose has a notebook in her hands. She scribbles something down in it. “I’ve heard of them before, but I’ve never seen one!”

You’re not entirely sure what’s happening, but you feel as if it’s something big.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A really, really short chapter. Sorry. Comments, feedback, and suggestions are always welcome!


	32. The Fragrance of Dark Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short again. Sorry. I'm setting up for something big, though, so please bear with me. [**This one is from Phoenix Wright.**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZxLlirprF0)

December 1st is cold and bleary. The sky is a muddled grey, the wind is bitter, and the only natural sound is a cacophony of crows. Not that you care.

Yesterday night, it rained. Today, it’s below freezing. Thanks to a copious amount of ice on every surface, classes have been canceled. You’ve gained another study day. You sit at your desk, hunched over your notebook, and read your notes with the utmost fervor. Exams are coming soon, and you’re not about to let them catch you unawares.

Dave, however, has different plans. He’s been mixing music for the past hour or so, but, now, it seems that he has a new activity planned. He approaches you from behind. “What’s going down in the Karkat corner, huh?”

”I’m studying, Strider,” you mutter.

“Really, now?” You can hear the smirk in his voice; it drips like stubborn, cocky water from a leaky faucet of bullshit.

”JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! Dude, don’t you have something better to do?”

Dave frowns. A pair of pinkish-white eyes stare at you, though they lack any sort of pupil or iris. You’ve grown used to seeing this, and he seems more comfortable without his prosthetic eyes in. “Not really. Uh...”

”Please, Dave, I have to study. Do something,” You mutter, returning to your work. To aid in your efforts to stay focused, you remove your hearing aids. He can’t distract you if you can’t hear him, right?

* * *

You put your books aside around 5:00 PM. By now, your brain feels as if it’s been thoroughly scrambled. Your eyes are dry, your stomach rumbles, and you need a break. Of course, your boyfriend is eager to offer a diversion. Presumably, he hears you putting your hearing aids back on.

As you’ve come to expect, he approaches with a wry grin on his face. His cane taps against the side of your foot, and he throws his arm over your shoulder. “You know, if your power is healing, you could probably fix both of us up right now,” he jokes.

You know he’s joking. The grin on his face gives it away, as does the way he gently elbows you in the stomach. You are who you are, and he is who he is. There’s no need to go changing it. Still, he’s given you some bait. “Yeah, maybe it’ll give you a fucking better personality.”

”Wowza,” Dave feigns offense. He folds his arms across his chest. “That was fuckin’ rude and uncalled for!”

You, meanwhile, snicker. You won’t justify his response with laughter. “So, what’s the plan?”

He cocks his head to the side. His hair, which is beginning to grow out, falls in his face. He doesn’t seem to mind. (You, however, do. As he speaks, you brush the strands out of his face.) “The plan for what?”

“For break, you fucking doofusshit,” you tut.

He shrugs. You know the answer, but you want to make absolute sure that things will work before you commit to what you’re about to do. “Not much. Bro ain’t letting me back home any time soon, but that’s no big loss. I’d rather sleep in a trash bag full of used toilet paper than go back to that shitty place.”

To your delight, his answer is exactly what you expected. You make a mental note of this, then continue with the current conversation. For now, you’ll keep your plans a secret. “Who puts toilet paper in trash bags?”

”The people in imagery town, you nosy ass,” huffs Dave. Despite his words, a small smile still graces his features.

* * *

You sit in one of the many soundproof study rooms in the library. The small space features little more than a pair of electrical outlets, a desk, and a chair. A painting of some vaguely ugly flowers adorns the slate grey wall.

Right now, you’re on the phone. You’re calling a very specific person, though you’re aware of the fact that this person is suspicious of you. In fact, his tone is one of blatant hesitation, though you can’t blame him. He’s been through a lot, of Dave’s stories are true. “So... you’re telling me that you can drive Dave here over Christmas break?”

”Yes,” you say this word for the umpteenth time in this phone call.

Silence. You can hear something happening in the background of Dirk's end of the call, but you're not sure what it is. Eventually, he speaks up. "I'll send you my address later tonight."

"Awesome!" You can't help but smile. So far, this plan is going perfectly. You've done the hardest part, which was convincing an uncertain kid you're actually his brother's boyfriend and that you're not a standard issue internet creep. Now, you just need to figure out the logistics...


	33. Special to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another song from Phantom of the Paradise. [**Here's the link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NmSWXBq8A9Y)!

December 11th marks the last day of your first semester of college. It marks the end of what might just be the most interesting months of your young life, and it marks the beginning of exam cram season. The often crowded hallways and common rooms are empty, and the usual cacophony of life has been replaced by silence. A stressful hush has fallen over the campus, as has a light dusting of snow. It happened around noon, at the end of your first class, and ended around 2:00 PM. It's not nearly enough to be a problem, but it's pleasant to look at. At the very least, it's a nice diversion from studying. A few people have abandoned their books and are now playing outside, throwing loosely packed, tiny snowballs at one another.

A knock on your window draws your attention, and you look ahead. Outside, John grins at you like an idiot. He gestures for you to come out.

Dave, meanwhile, sits up in bed. He cocks his head to the side and frowns. By now, the bruising from the surgery is gone. "Let me guess," he begins, smirking in his usual, insufferable way, "John wants us to come outside. I'll bet you $20 he wants to have a shitty snowball fight, and he's planning on hurling shit at me like bullets from the fastest machine gun the world's ever seen."

Something thumps against the window again. Your attention turns away from Dave, and you look past John. Rose and Kanaya are standing a few yards away. Kanaya is laughing, and Rose's face is contorted into a look of wide-eyed shock. She points a finger at her girlfriend, as if to say that Kanaya is responsible. You're not really interested in who did it, though you believe that either of them could have done it.

You shake your head and turn back to Dave. "Yeah, it looks exactly like that."

He smirks, jumps from bed, and throws on a tattered leather jacket. In under a minute, he's somehow prepared himself enough to leave. "Peace out, then, because I'm going to go kick John's ass."

You follow suit. Pulling on your usual black hoodie, you wander outside. "Shouldn't we all be studying for our fucking finals, instead of having some sort of infantile snow war? I swear to—" Your commentary is cut off by a snowball to the face. Nearby, Dave laughs. "Jesus fucking Christ..." As you open your eyes, you see another one heading for you. The loosely packed snow is sloughing off as it flies through the air and, by the time it reaches you, it's little more than a puff of cold.

"It seems I miscalculated that one," Rose huffs. She leans over, and begins making another snowball.

You, meanwhile, resign yourself to the fact that studying will not be happening for a while. You march forwards, picking up a handful of snow as you go, and try to sneak up on Dave. For your efforts, you're rewarded with a cane to the shin. You let forth a surprised yelp, drop your weapon, and end up getting pegged in the face by another snowball. "I don't remember it being Shit on Karkat Day. Is today, by some inexplicable slip of my own awareness of the ever-changing date, Shit on Karkat Day? Did I somehow miss the shit-stained memo?"

"Yup," Kanaya responds succinctly, then snickers when another snowball hits the back of your head.

Dave, meanwhile, shrugs. "Look, man, I obviously can't be doing any of this. You really think I have good aim?"

You sigh, dodge another snowball from John, and quickly make your own. You throw it towards him, and refuse to restrain your victorious whoop. "Eat shit, Egbert!"

He snickers. "Rude, dude."

"I believe what you were trying to say is that you should never turn your back to the enemy." Kanaya's voice is surprisingly close to you. Before you can turn around, she's dropped two handfuls of snow on your head. Rose, not surprisingly, is wheezing with laughter. All the while, the woman you'd believed to be your only ally in this fight, smiles innocently. She plays with a strand of her thick, curly hair. "Now, Karkat, don't look so sour."

"I just wanted to study!" you exclaim, throwing your hands in the air. As you continue, you feel someone brushing the snow out of your hair. You assume it's Dave. "This is college, not preschool! We're supposed to be nurturing our fucking minds, not rotting them from the inside out with this bullshit!" You do your best to sound frustrated, though you're honestly delighted by these antics.

Behind you, Dave snickers. He hands you a snowball, which you assume he's been making, and pats you on the shoulder.

You immediately forgo throwing it at Kanaya. That's a waste of a good snowball. Instead, you lob it at Rose. To your amazement, it works.

Her laughter halts, and she turns to you with a vaguely threatening smile. "That, dear Karkat, was a bad idea," she says.

Kanaya nods in agreement.

Only now do you see the formidable stockpile of pre-made snowballs behind her.

"OH SHIT! I'll go call up the campus ministries people," John says, his voice surprisingly solemn.

You frown. Your brows furrow. "And what the fuck do we need them for?"

Another snowball hits you in the guy as John responds, still grinning like an idiot, "Your funeral."

Considering the fact that Rose is now preparing to lob snowballs at you at high speed, you're not entirely sure he's just joking...

* * *

By early morning, the mood has returned to the same anxious gloom it was before. People lurch around campus, all of them tired and ready for exams to be over. You, of course, are one of these people. You have exams to tend to, and they'll be finished by Wednesday. This is fortunate for you, as you're eager to get on the road. Dirk's house is a solid two day drive away, after all.

You told him about the plans about a week ago, but he seems as excited as you are. Perhaps moreso, and that's not a gob-smacking surprise to you, either; Dirk is _his_ younger brother.

"You're okay with dogs, right?" you ask, checking the messages Dirk has sent you recently. Right now, you're trying to make sure everything will go smoothly. You're running through a checklists of warnings. "He said that you got bitten by one at some point, so I don't know. You were probably being a shit-spewing idiot..."

"I was!" Dave smirks. "I deserved it. Dogs are fine."

"You smoke, so that's not an issue... Um..." You scroll through the text on your phone. "No food allergies... He says the house has a pretty weird setup, but you're fine with that."

Dave nods.

From what you can gather, everyone is excited for the reunion. There doesn't seem to be anything that could possibly go wrong, and you've already made sure to fill your car's tank. Dave has been slowly packing his things, and you've gotten all the clothes you aren't wearing this week in a bag. "He's got a real thing up his ass about seeing you, dude. He's blowing my phone up like a nuclear bomb," you point out.

"He'd never admit it, but we're tight as fuck." Dave smirks, as if this is some sort of feat. (You suppose it is. Two people being raised in such an environment could have had much, much different outcomes. Then again, you suppose this is one of the best.) "I've been texting him, too, but it's annoying to dictate shit. It's like Siri's never been to goddamned Texas, because this piece of shit techno-servant has no clue what the fuck I'm saying half the fuckin' time."

"Then stop being so fucking Texan," you shrug.

"He's asked a lot about you, by the way. He wants to make sure you're not screaming insults at me every five seconds," Dave folds his hands behind his head and leans his back against the wall. He props his feet up on the edge of your desk, though you don't mind. "I told him you're vaguely tolerable."

A quick snort of laughter escapes you. "Thanks, douchecanoe, you're not half bad."

"You're nice to look at." The shit-eating smirk on Dave's face tells you that he knows what he's saying.

You, however, play along. "I love listening to you snore at night, when my hearing aids are out and the only goddamned thing loud enough to pierce the veil of shitstained silence is your nighttime respiratory problem."

"That's one fuckin' kink, dude," Dave cocks his head to the side. He waggles his brows. "I think I'm going to shame that."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you right now, come again later." This is a blatant lie, as you can hear him perfectly fine. However, seeing as he started this odd charade, you might as well continue it.

Dave, meanwhile yawns. He stretches his arms above his head and rubs his eyes. "Damn, why're we awake at 8:00 on a Saturday, anyhow?"

"I'm up to study, anus-for-a-brain, you can do whatever the fuck you want." You make sure he knows you're joking. You keep your tone lighthearted and your voice as soft as you can. (Although, according to John, that's not very soft.) "Go back to sleep if you want."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Dave exclaims. He drops onto his side, then pulls his bedclothes over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought it would be the Strider Reunion, but not yet. We're getting there.


	34. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one has a double perspective, so I chose an Elton John song to reflect that. The song has an artwork in its title, so I figured it would fit naming convention.

**Your name is Dave Strider,** and your head is sticking out the passenger’s side window of Karkat’s car. The wind blows in your face and whips your hair around like it’s part of some stupid commercial for shampoo. It’s cold, and it bites at your exposed skin with a pointed determination. It’s unpleasant, but it serves its purpose. You’re distracted from your thoughts. At least, for now, you can think of something other than what it will be like to meet Dirk again. So much has happened since you last saw him...

”Dammit, Strider, the cold is chapping my fucking balls off. Close the goddamned window!” Karkat snaps at you.

Seeing as he’s been kind enough to take you on this journey instead of going home to see his own family for Christmas, you do as you’re told. You lean your head against the headrest and roll the window up. The button to operate it goes down, and a quiet, crackling whirring sound comes from the door. Now, only the music distracts you. Though Karkat can hear it, he admits to not really being a fan; from what you know, even the best hearing aids have a certain degree of distortion, and Karkat’s are merely mid-range. So, with few other options left, you try striking up some conversation. You clear your throat. “So... You didn’t tell him ‘bout the eyes, right?”

Karkat lets forth a disgruntled huff. “I fucking wanted to, but I didn’t. I don’t know why you’ve got such an incomprehensible fixation on that. I don’t think he’ll give two flying fucks about it, he’s just going to be going apeshit over seeing his brother again.”

You nod. Of course, he’s right. Dirk doesn’t care about that sort of shit, but you’re still not entirely comfortable with it. Even the notion of your reunion is bothering you, as you won’t be able to really see him. In fact, you’ll never see him again, and that’s something that hasn’t managed to fully integrate into your psyche yet. “He’ll probably jump on why the fuck I got red prosthetics, to be fuckin’ honest.” When you’d opened your mouth, you planned on saying something intelligent. This, however, seems fine with you. “He’s dating, by the way. Sounds real happy.”

”Really?” asks Karkat. The sound of one of the indicators echoes in the car.

You, meanwhile, respond to the inquiry. “Yeah, some kid named Jake. He seems nice enough. A fuckin’ odd duck, one hell of a mystery straight from the Mystery Mobile, but he’s okay.” You fold your arms across your chest. Somehow, you get the feeling that Karkat knows you need to be distracted. “One hell of a dork, though.”

Karkat breathes in, as if to respond to you, only to let forth a loud exclamation, "FUCK YOU, TOO, YOU INCOMPETENT IDIOT!" As he speaks, the car comes to an abrupt halt. He leans on the horn. "You know, maybe your bumper is bashed to hell and back because you _suck at driving._ "

You find yourself smirking.

Karkat, meanwhile, takes a moment. Then, perhaps realizing that you don't know what happened, he offers a sheepish sigh. You can picture it in your head: his gaze locked on the road ahead, avoiding you, as he rubs his neck. You can hear the soft percussion of his fingers beating against the steering wheel. "Some jackass just fucking pulled in front of us like he owns the street. He doesn't, though, and he shouldn't even own a goddamned license, to be fucking honest."

A silence descends upon the car, though it's not uncomfortable; it's mutual. You lean back in the seat and close your eyes, though it makes no real difference. You listen to the music, which Karkat admits to playing purely for your benefit, and yawn.

To your left, you hear him laugh. It's soft, more akin to a chuckle, though it's pointedly affectionate. "Jesus fucking Christ, Strider, go to sleep if you're so damned tired."

"I think I fuckin' might," you reply.

The car rocks back and forth rhythmically, and the engine's hum is a low, soft sound. Warm air blows in your face, though it's not unpleasantly hot. It circulates Karkat's smell, an aromatic grab bag of spices, vanilla, and the faintest hints of cigarette smoke. Your breathing evens out, your mind wanders, and, eventually...

* * *

**Your name is Karkat Vantas,** and the motel before you looks seedy as hell. The sign is supposed to read "Roadside Cabins," but several letters have burned out. Now, it just says, "Roadie Cabs." The reviews said it had no bedbugs, though, and it's a cheap place to stop for the night. You've got about ten hours of travel behind you and, now, you've only got six more to go.

You're tired, your ass hurts, and your left hearing aid battery has died. Your batteries are in your suitcase, which you don't plan on taking inside. After all, you'll only be here until morning. For now, you'll just live without it.

"Strider," you nudge your boyfriend.

He bats your hand aside.

"Dammit, you fucking idiot, wake up. We're at the motel." You nudge him harder, and he finally sits up. A sheepish smile crosses his face.

"Shit, already?" He cocks his head to the side.

You roll your eyes. "You've been the worst copilot since whoever the fuck told Columbus he was in India. Get your ass out of the car so I can lock it."

He nods, rubs his eyes, and grabs the gym back you've packed a change of clothes in. After stumbling from the car, he reaches back in and grabs his cane. Once he's backed away enough, you close and lock the doors. He rests a hand on your upper arm, and follows you as you check into the place.

The room you booked is... less than ideal. It's small, a bit dirty, and it smells like feet. However, it's a room. It's a room, and there are no bedbugs. You eagerly fling yourself onto the bed, and quickly drift off to sleep.

* * *

**Your name is Dave Strider,** and you probably shouldn't have slept through over half of the trip. Now, you're not tired. You're awake, alert, and left with little to do beyond twiddle your thumbs and breathe in the horrid smell of the motel. Karkat is already asleep, and you're not about to complain about that. He's done all the driving, after all, but it does make for a boring night.

Eventually, you decide to check your phone. By now, you have several unanswered texts from Dirk. They're all bursting with excitement, even when read in Siri's monotone. You don't answer, though. For now, you let them sit. For now, you breathe a long sigh. You pull off your sweatshirt and crawl into bed, nestling yourself against Karkat. His body is warm, though you're sure it's not as warm as yours. His soft, thick hair brushes against your chin.

You lay in bed for an hour.

Two hours.

After three hours, you give up. You get out of bed and play around on your phone. You've yet to find any worthwhile games, but you're content to browse Wikipedia...

* * *

**Your name is Karkat Vantas,** and you slept better than well. Despite your surroundings, you slept sounder than sound. You felt energized, and you were quick to grab some breakfast. It's wasn't much, but you figured a few muffins from the motel's basket of prepackaged breakfast foods was better than nothing. You returned to the room, woke Dave, and ate in silence. Then, you hit the road.

Now, you're nearing your destination. The anxious energy radiating from Dave is palpable and thick. And, as you sit at an obscenely long stoplight, you do your best to soothe it. "Are we going to meet Jake while we're there?"

He shrugs. Shaking hands run through unkempt bottle blond hair. When Dave is fine, he's cool as a cucumber; when something is wrong, though, something is really wrong. "He said we were... Yeah. We're... He said we'll meet Jake." His face is turned away from you, and he seems to stare out the window. "How much further?"

"The GPS says about ten minutes." You continue to level the stoplight the most vicious glare you can muster. It does nothing to change it, but it feels good. "Everything will be fine, Strider."

"Probably," Dave admits. He shrugs. "I'm just worried... That's all..."

You sigh. As far as you're concerned, you won't be able to sway his opinion. There's something that's latched onto his thoughts, and it'll be a pain in the ass for you to try and get rid of it. For now, you turn the music up a little. As you do this, the light turns green, and you continue driving. You pass through an upscale suburban neighborhood, and speak to Dave about it. "He must be living with some people with a fuckton of money. These houses are huge."

"As big as yours?" Dave asks, a nervous smile playing at the edges of his lips.

"Hm... Not quite." You pass through a few intersections, and go down a winding road. You're unsure of where, exactly, you're heading. For now, you're just following the GPS. The distance decreases. Eventually, it hits zero. A voice announces your arrival.

The house is a light shade of blue. It's three stories tall, a healthy size, and fronted by a carefully maintained flower garden. A large oak tree stands in front of it, and a tire swing sways from a relatively low branch. Again, you comment, "The house is nice."

Dave says nothing. He silently extracts himself from the car and begins unloading his things.

You follow suit. With a bit of coaxing, you remove the largest suitcase from the trunk. You set it down, pull up the handle, and throw your bag over your shoulder. By now, Dave has finished unloading his things. You lock your car, and approach the front door. "So, Strider, you ready for this?"

He breathes in. (You'd think that this would be a simple reunion, especially since it's been less than a year, but a lot has happened...) "Real answer, or fake answer?"

"Real answer, you fucking shithead," you say, gently nudging him.

A small smile appears on his face, though it's brief. "I ain't ready for this shit. I'm less ready than Napoleon trying to invade Russia. A dolphin is more prepared to sprout legs and live on land than I'm ready for this, but..." His can hits the front door. He freezes. "Shit."

The door opens.


	35. Jitterbug Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this is from bioshock. [**Here's the usual link!**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHBSgRue-O8)

Dirk Strider looks exactly as he does in his profile pictures, though his skin is a bit tanner. He's built much like Dave, with broad shoulders and lean muscle. He's about six inches shorter than his older brother, though his presence still demands your attention. When he sees you, he eyes you suspiciously. When he sees Dave, he grins. "Well, now, aren't you a sight for sore eyes? Did you just wake up, bro?"

Dave rolls his eyes. He steps forward, towers over his little brother, and smirks. It's something that you'd assume would be intimidating, but Dirk's reaction says otherwise. Likewise, a large grin is spread across Dave's face, though you note that there's a certain air of something more. You're unsure what other emotion could be hiding behind his outward excitement, but you know it's there. You can feel it.

"Still wearing those stupid shades?" Dirk asks.

Dave shrugs. He tugs at his bag's strap. "Yeah, I don't see why not."

"You could get something more fashion forward, my dude. Get rid of those drab old things, and pick up something that'll make you the talk of the town." Here, Dirk steps forward. He puts his arm over Dave's shoulder, which draws a quiet huff of surprise. "I'm saying that what you need is the absolute pinnacle of fashionable eyewear, Dave. Take it from me, the Strider with better vision, that you should indulge yourself in this luxury." With this, he pats his brother on the shoulder. When he releases his grip, you notice that Dave lets forth a sigh of relief.

"And you're...?" Now, Dirk approaches you. He eyes you warily, though it seems that he decides you're worth talking to. "Karkat, right?"

You nod and offer him your hand. He accepts the gesture as you continue, "That's right."

Dave snickers. "I fuckin' hope it's right." He steps forwards, into the house.

You and Dirk follow.

The space is a decent size, and it features an open concept layout. The kitchen is to the northeast, and a stairway leads to an overlooking second story living space, which seems to have been converted into a gaming area. Four doors are present upstairs, and you assume that these are the bedrooms. Perhaps there's a bathroom. You're not about to ask.

"It's a lot nicer here than it was at Bro's," Dirk says. Though his voice is dripping with excitement, his expression is enigmatic. "I live upstairs, in the room next to the guest bedroom. Both rooms have their own bathrooms, too, so it's not like we have to share a toilet."

Dave nods. "Yeah... It seems nice," he mutters.

Dirk seems unaware of the hesitation in his brother's voice. You're split as to whether his over-the-top excitement to reunite with his brother is cute or unnerving. "I'm sure most things are better than living with Bro, though, right?"

Again, Dave nods. "You're not wrong about that, dude."

This continues for a few hours. Dirk gives Dave a thorough tour of his foster home, while Dave utters half-hearted commentary. You, meanwhile, are granted the divine pleasure of being a third wheel. This continues when Dirk's parents return from work. They greet Dave warmly, and seem to give you the cold shoulder. You're not about to complain about this, but it's a bit annoying.

At some point, as you're being shown the second floor gaming space, Dave asks the question you've been dying to pose. "So, dude, why ain't you in school?"

"I'm being homeschooled. To the astounding surprise of exactly zero people, Bro fucked me over as much as he fucked you over. As I'm positively certain we've both noticed, I'm a therapist's wet dream. After a few weeks of trying, it was determined that homeschooling was better." At the end of this lengthy response, Dirk shrugs. He drops into a bright orange beanbag chair and folds his hands behind his head. "I met Jake at school, though, so _something_ came out of that raucous shitshow."

Dave snickers.

You, as you have been for the past few hours, remain silent.

"You still any good at Mortal Kombat?" Dirk asks.

Dave pauses. He chews on his lip on lets forth a thoughtful hum. "I might be. I got what I guess you'd call a fuckin' life-altering surgery recently, and they ended up keeping my eyes, but I'd say I could easily kick your ass." Dave's reveal is subtle, swift, and dripping with sarcasm. You expected as much, though you have to admit that this is a relatively sly way to handle the situation.

Dirk, as you expected, rolls with the punch. He shrugs. "I'm not sure it's a fair fight at that point, but I'm not going to turn down an offer to defeat the reigning Strider Kombat Champion, complete with an unnecessary trademark symbol."

Though you can still sense a sort of disappointment and discomfort from Dave, his shoulders relax. He breathes a sigh of poorly veiled relief, and a small smile crosses his face. "That's one thing on the agenda, then."

* * *

At 4:30, Dirk leads you and Dave to the guest room. It's relatively small, but there's plenty of space for the two of you. A small television is set on the dresser at the foot of the bed, and the sky blue walls are decorated with what you assume to be wedding photos of Dirk's foster family. The furniture is plain and modern, though it's not exactly utilitarian.

You're left to your own devices, and Dirk announces that he has to go wrap up some homework. He leaves with a pointed reluctance.

Dave, meanwhile, checks his phone. As he does so, a snort of laughter escapes him.

Naturally, you eye him suspiciously. You've never before seen a text message make him laugh, and you're about to ask him what's so amusing when he shoves his phone in your face.

"I think you'll appreciate the picture more than Terezi's fuckin' obscene ramblings."

The image before you is something you can only describe as karma in a visual form. A man, who appears exactly as you'd imagine a forty-something-year-old Dave Strider would, is sprawled out on the pavement. Sollux is in the background, offering a surprisingly serene peace sign, while Terezi proudly stands on top of the fallen man. Her grin seems to span from one ear to the other, and you can almost hear her cackle. Beneath this, there's a simple caption: "We found this shitbag creeping around your dorm. Might as well do you a solid."

Having processed the beauty of the scenario, you also laugh. "Well, damn. Christmas came early."

"Christmas came in like a fuckin' bullet to a target dummy, dude. We've got a certified Christmas miracle on our hands," snickers Dave.

* * *

Around 6:00, they serve supper. You and Dave have been in the guest bedroom for the past hour, and Dave has removed his shades. However, when you're called upon to come to supper, he puts them back on. You follow him down the steps, and into the living room. Dirk sits at Dave's left, while you're at his right.

Dirk's foster mother, a woman who insists upon being called Ms. Paint, is the first to speak. Her lips are turned upwards, and her smile makes her rosy cheeks even more prominent. "So, Dave, you're the one who took charge of young Dirk?"

With a fair bit of reluctance, Dave nods. He prods at the steaming haunch of lamb on his plate and shrugs. "I guess. I mean, I ain't anything like a parent. That's why I cut him loose, y'know?"

"I understand completely," Ms. Paint says, nodding eagerly. "Yes, that was a very responsible move. It's worked out wonderfully. Dirk is so happy here, and he settled right in!"

Now, Dirk's foster father, a tall, formidable man in his mid-fifties, speaks. (He insists you call him Spades, though you're certain this isn't his real name.) "It's almost like he'd lived here forever." With this said, he returns to eating his meal in stoic silence.

Ms. Paint nods sagely in response to her husband's commentary.

Dave, meanwhile, does his best to avoid making the matter bigger than it's already become. In fact, after a moment of thought, he begins talking to Dirk. "So, you like Karkat?"

Dirk shrugs. "He's okay. I like Jake more."

You feel like you should be offended, though you find his honesty amusing.

"That's fair, dude," Dave nods. By now, he's managed to finish about half of his plate. "I'm going to go out on one hell of a limb and say you like it here?"

Dirk nods.

Though no one seems to be interested in discussing much of anything with you, you still offer your input. "It's not the worst place to live. It's not humid, like back home, and it's not too cold." (Right now, you're doing your best to keep your commentary clean. Cussing like a sailor probably isn’t the best thing to do in front of Dirk's foster family. After all, Dave has also been avoiding it.)

To your surprise, Dirk nods. He acknowledges your commentary. "Yeah, it was way too hot in Texas. And Skaia isn't much better."

"Fair conclusion." Dave shrugs. "So, Dirk, you still making robots?"

"Yeah!" The usual placid demeanor is broken, and Dirk grins. It's a brief gesture, but it's obvious that he's excited to be talking about his engineering exploits. "I've been working on something for you, actually. It's an AI that can learn grocery labels and read them off. There's probably something like it already out there, but I figured that I could do it better. All the other ones have this impractical focus on user interfaces." At the conclusion of this, he shrugs, as if this is something that he does every day. (Then again, if Dave's commentary is true, this is just a hobby of his.) "I'll try and get a version of it up and running for you soon."

At this point, Dave looks like a proud parent. There's a shit-eating smile on his face, and his arms are folded triumphantly across his chest. "Well, damn. That's..." He pauses, obviously stopping himself from using his usual brand of self-expression, before continuing, "That's super rad. I'll check it out."

"Jake is coming over later during break, so you'll be able to see him. I've told him about you, actually, but it's nothing bad." Dirk, you note, is quick to reassure Dave that there's no bad blood between them. "He's inexplicably excited to meet you, and he keeps going on about how he should thank you for protecting me. Something like that."

"It was nothing, dude, just basic decency." Dave sighs. By now, his plate is clear. He sets aside his knife and fork, then quietly excuses himself from the table. As he leaves, you notice him pulling a cigarette out of his pocket.

* * *

You share a room with him, and it's 4:00 AM. He's yet to so much as touch the bed, and you're growing irritated. Not that you have a right to be, it's not as if he has a light on. He's simply camped out in the opposite corner of the room and played on his phone. Besides, you've been to sleep. You went to bed at a decent time, around 10:30, and only woke to go to the bathroom. You suppose that means he _could_ have been to bed in the meantime, but he hasn't moved from where he was when you'd fallen asleep. Thus, the only logical conclusion is that he's been mindlessly fucking around on Wikipedia for the past six hours.

"Are you coming to bed any time soon, dumbass?" you ask.

He looks up, towards you, and cocks his head to the side. He shrugs, and there's an annoying air of apathy to the action. When he responds, you don't hear it; you didn't have the foresight to put your hearing aids back in. Normally, you'd be embarrassed about this. With Dave, however, it's merely a mild inconvenience. With the ease and speed that comes only from practice, you slip them on. "What? Sorry, didn't hear you."

"I said that I'm not tired, and I left the Non-24 shit in the dorm." To punctuate his statement, he folds his arms across his chest. "So, what? You're going to be my mom, now?"

A disgruntled sigh escapes you. "No. I'm just politely suggesting to at least try to go the fuck to sleep."

He offers little more than a huff of frustration.

You, meanwhile, roll over and go back to sleep.


	36. There’ll Never Be Goodbye

You stand with him in a dark room. His shades are off, and a wide smile graces his features. There’s something inherently mischievous about that grin—a sort of weird, inexplicable aura about it, which screams of barely contained energy. His wet hair is sleeked back, and the plain black bath robe he’s wearing hangs from his frame, as if it’s meant for a giant.

He tells you that he got it from his brother. Or, rather, he stole it from his brother years ago. He tells you of things you’ve never thought about before: how the swaying of the trees on a windy day produces a gentle, whimsical tinkling Of leafs like bells; how the shuffling of feet can be used to identify people, judging based in the way they walk and the speed; and how the birds greet each morning with an intricate song, whose notes are produced by voices as vast and varied as a fully equipped orchestra. He says none of these things with such poetic, flowery language, though. Instead, he throws them out as random conversational pieces. They’re nothing more to him than thoughts.

He presses his lips against yours, and it’s a soft, gentle action. It’s nothing abrupt, but it’s not painfully slow. He’s led into it, begging for your attention with each thoughtless comment, and he’s earned it. His arms have wrapped themselves around you, and his fingers trace soft circles on your shoulder blades. His breath is warm against your neck.

”God, you’re...” he begins.

You cover his mouth with your finger. In the most stupid way you can manage, you waggle your brows. “Don’t finish, you’re going to say something stupid.”

”Well, of course I am. The fuck do you take me for, a rational fuckin’ person?” He snorts with laughter, and it’s as inelegant as it is endearing. You’re puzzled as to how you can like this dork, but you don’t bother investing too much time into it. There’s no point wondering when the action is taking place.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and things have worked out. For once, everything has fallen into place.

”Don’t touch my ass in my little brother’s house,” he hisses.

You smirk. Honestly, you hadn’t noticed. Now that you know, though, you withdraw. Nevertheless, you make no attempt to cover your own snickering. “Don’t breathe into my goddamned neck in your little brother’s house, you fucking provoking, lumpy turd.”

”Sounds hot,” he hums.

You roll your eyes and roll over, stopping once you’re sitting up. You slip your feet into the slippers on the floor. “Come on, loser, I can smell dinner.”

”So can I,” he snickers and, as he fights himself, you feel his hands against your sides. His face nestles against the back of your neck. “I smell new shampoo, too. Coconut?”

You gently push him back. “Fucking weirdo. Stop sniffing everyone’s hair. You’re turning into Terezi.”

”And that’s a problem?” He purrs.

You sigh. Though you try to sound disgruntled, you realize you’re more amused.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’ve fallen in love with a goddamned magician. If you take everything into account, though, it seems he’s in love with you, too. And that’s just how you like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit this got longer than I meant for it to. Oops. Uuuuuuuuuuh..... I hope this didn’t feel too rushed but this was the end of the story tbh so I finally wrapped it up. Hope you enjoyed!


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